


Queer Eye 5.01: Adult Content

by randomhorse



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), Queer Eye for the Straight Guy RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Fix-It, M/M, Mixed Media, Queer Eye crossover, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomhorse/pseuds/randomhorse
Summary: “Fuck, Bill,” Richie says. “Name one thing five gay guys could teach me that I don’t already know.”In which Bill accidentally nominates Richie for Queer Eye. Are five gay guys in his house Richie Tozier's worst nightmare or will they turn out to be just what he needed? The answer is yes.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 42
Kudos: 429





	Queer Eye 5.01: Adult Content

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of this premise, let's pretend the events of IT Chapter 2 took place in 2019. Also, Stan isn't really in this because times are hard enough as it is and I didn't want to think about suicide. Sorry, Stan stans :(
> 
> Disclaimer: the Fab Five are real people, and while I tried to write them as accurately to their on-screen personas as possible, obviously everything they do and say in this fic is pure fantasy and does not in any way reflect their actions and opinions in real life. (Listen, I don't know if Antoni would pre-cook his lasagna sheets. I just don't know. But since he is a man of great taste, I'm assuming he wouldn't. It's called creative license. You get my drift.)
> 
> Anyways, I hope this sweetens your self-isolation. Do what Eddie would do: Stay inside (if you can), wash your hands and don't touch your face!
> 
> Enjoy! :)

> _**Queer Eye Season 5 To Feature Controversial Celebrity Hero** _
> 
> _While any dedicated Queer Eye fan (I see you!) will already have marked down the premiere date for the hotly anticipated fifth season of the Netflix show, the shroud of secrecy has finally been lifted from the first candidate the Fab Five will “make better“ in the oncoming season._
> 
> _As Netflix announced yesterday, the new season will open with an episode featuring its first bona fide celebrity guest: none other than Richie “Trashmouth“ Tozier, whose own_ _ Netflix special _ _is set to air later this year, will put himself in the healing hands of_ _ Antoni _ _(food and wine),_ _ Tan _ _(fashion),_ _ Bobby _ _(interior design),_ _ Karamo _ _(culture) and_ _ Jonathan _ _(grooming)._
> 
> _The announcement has since been met with_ _ mixed reactions around the web _ _, some fearing that Netflix is using their most established LGBTQ* program to “sanitize“ Tozier’s image in the run-up to his own Netflix format. Tozier, whose most recent claim to fame was a_ _ viral video _ _of himself blanking on stage last year, is best known for a specific brand of self-described “politically incorrect” humor that has found him under attack from liberal watchers and marginalized groups more than once._
> 
> _What do you think? Are the Fab Five's resources wasted on Tozier? Or is he precisely the Straight White Man who could benefit from a visit by the country's most beloved gay quintet? Let us know in the comments!_
> 
> _Season 5 of Queer Eye premieres worldwide on Netflix on May 5th._
> 
> _Entertainment Weekly, April 29th 2020_

  
  


EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER

  
  


“You’re not allowed to be mad at me,” Bill says over the phone, and Richie instantly knows something is horribly wrong.

“What did you do?”

There’s an edge to Bill’s voice that reminds Richie of late night calls to his house, followed inevitably by a confession of complete idiocy by Bill and then a contrived and probably more idiotic attempt to fix the disaster of the hour before the next school day. Like when Bill had accidentally asked Becky Nielsen to prom. Or when he had driven his dad’s van into a ditch. Or when he’d sworn, two years after they had first killed the fucking clown, that he’d heard Georgie’s voice from down the drain in the bathroom. Now Bill’s voice sounds a little hoarse down the line, like he didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. _This better not be a girl thing_ , Richie thinks.

“So you know how yesterday was the premiere of _Kids_?” Bill says.

Richie suppresses a sigh. The only thing Bill has been talking about for the past year has been _Kids in the Sewers_ , the Netflix adaptation of his first novel, which in a sick coincidence started filming just as Bill was wading thigh-deep through shit in the precise sewage system portrayed in the book, getting ready to kill a murderous space clown. Let it suffice to say: Bill sort of lost the reins on where the production was going. So, fair, Richie can’t blame him for getting worked up about the result.

“Was it good?” Richie asks innocently.

“Y-yeah,” Bill says, and sounds surprised himself. “Yeah, they liked it, I think. The crew was pretty happy with it...” His voice trails off before he catches himself. “But that’s not why I’m calling, Rich.”

“Jesus, spit it out, Denbrough,” Richie says, winding the motel phone’s cord around his finger. It can’t be _bad_ news, he tells the nausea rising in his stomach. Not bad measured on the scale of bad phone calls he has received in his life. Inconvenient, maybe. Uncomfortable, at most. He takes a deep breath, wishing Bill wouldn’t make such a fucking show of it.

“You know how you run into people on these kinds of events?” Bill starts.

Richie doesn’t, because whenever he’s had to attend these kinds of events, he’d end up in the bathroom with a nose full of coke, and then finally completely naked on his bed in his empty apartment, never remembering much about who he’d run into in the stretch in between.

“Yeah,” Richie says.

“So I bumped into your m-manager,” Bill says, sounding miserable.

“Ollie?” Richie asks.

“Yeah, Ollie. He’s a nice guy,” Bill says.

“Shut up, Bill, Ollie wears rimless glasses to one-up the hipsters with tortoiseshell frames,” Richie says. “He’s a fucking nuisance, is what he is.”

“He’s also looking for you,” Bill says.

“I know,” Richie says. “If the seventeen calls per day are any indication to go by.” There’s a reason why Richie hardly switches on his phone anymore and left the call-through number for his motel room in the Losers’ group chat instead. Not that they’d call him much, the lot of them.

On the other end of the line Bill lets out a sharp sigh. “Anyways…”

“Did you manage to cancel my Netflix special?” Richie asks. “Because honestly, you’d be doing me a favor at this point.” Richie glances over to the fold-down desk, from where the blueish glow of his laptop screen is glaring accusingly into his direction. On it, the first draft of the script for the special, courtesy of his favorite ghostwriter Steve, is waiting for Richie’s approval, has been waiting for close to a week now. When Bill called, Richie had been scrolling through it looking for bits to annotate, places to leave his mark, but it’s airtight: a neat, mean, poignant stand-up routine of Trashmouth perfection.

“No, your special is f-fine,” Bill says, swallowing, uneasiness oozing out of the receiver. “I, um.” He pauses briefly, steeling himself for Richie’s reaction. “So I suggested you for Queer Eye.”

There’s a short pause, in which Richie is sure Bill is holding his breath, while Richie tries to remember what he actually knows about Queer Eye, except that Mike watches it, and that people use words like _wholesome_ and _masculinity_ in the same sentence when they talk about it, and that it’s, like, gay.

“Are you still there?” Bill asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Richie says. He vaguely remembers the 90ies version from back when he had the attention span for trash TV.

“In my defense, Rich,” Bill says, sounding sufficiently sheepish about it, “there was no way for me to know Ollie would jump on it like that. You never told me he was that fucking desperate.”

“Have you _seen_ me, Denbrough?” Richie says. “Other guys his age get to rep Mulaney, and he’s stuck with the dick joke guy who looks like a sex offender. Of course he’s fucking desperate.”

“You don’t look like a sex offender,” Bill says automatically and with a softness that Richie finds surprisingly touching. Of course, even he doesn’t debate the dick joke part. Bill pauses briefly, treading carefully when he continues. “It could be good for you, I think. Not just to promote the special, you know. It’s a nice show. They actually help people.”

“You know it’s fake, right?” Richie says. “They call it reality TV, but it’s fake.”

On the other end of the line Bill says nothing. Richie knows the look Bill would be giving him right now if they were in the same room.

“Fuck, Bill,” Richie says. “Name one thing five gay guys could teach me that I don’t already know.”

“All I’m saying is to hear them out,” Bill says, pointedly not answering the question. “Just… take their call.”

“I’m unplugging my landline as we speak,” Richie says, and forgets about it as soon as he puts the receiver down.

  
  


\---

  
  


Two weeks later there’s a thick A4 envelope in the mail, containing two copies of a twenty-page contract, a pre-signed NDA, and a post-it stuck to the top of it.

_Play time’s over, Trashmouth. It’s this or Dancing With The Stars. Call me! O._

Richie symbolically lets it sit on top of his fold-down desk for forty-eight full hours, just to make himself believe that he has a choice in this. Then he asks the front desk for a pen and return envelope, signs it and sends it out. In the end, it feels remarkable unremarkable, he thinks, tossing the envelope into the letterbox, and then he doesn’t sleep for two full nights.

  
  


\---

> TITLE CARD:
> 
> A NETFLIX ORIGINAL PRODUCTION
> 
> _We open on a drone shot of a small town neighborhood. Ominous music in the background, colors muted. The facade of a run-down movie theater, a bell tower veined with dead ivy, faded missing persons posters pinned to a front door, wilted wreaths on a World War II memorial, the chipped plaster statue of a lumberjack towering over a public green. Another title card reveals the location: DERRY, MAINE._
> 
> JONATHAN (V. O., faking a nasal newscaster’s voice): Derry, Maine. America’s True Crime Capital. Forty-six unsolved missing person cases since 1965. Just recently this peaceful patch of earth made headlines with another serial killing spree. They never caught a suspect.  
> KARAMO (V.O.): Wrong show, Jonathan. This isn’t Dateline.
> 
> _A record scratch, then the ominous music is replaced by a more upbeat soundtrack, the desaturated color correction flicking into a more lively palette. Inside the Fab Five truck, Antoni, Tan, Karamo, Jonathan and Bobby giggle, while - in a wide shot - the Fab Five’s black GMC passes a lovingly crafted wooden sign: WELCOME TO DERRY._
> 
> ANTONI: So what the [bleep] are we doing in America’s Number One Murdertown?
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Cut to the interior of a nondescript motel room. A tall man with glasses sits hunched over in front of a low fold-down desk. Title card: RICHIE TOZIER, 41. His face is lit by the blueish glow of the laptop screen. Mumbling unintelligibly, he hacks a sentence into the keyboard, then wipes his eyes under his greasy glasses and stretches in his chair, his too-short, ratty t-shirt riding up and revealing a stretch of hairy belly._
> 
> RICHIE (V.O.): I’m, um, Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier, I’m a stand up comedian, also known to my fans as the King of Adult Content.
> 
> _He sounds tense. A slight rise of his vocal pitch puts a question mark at the end of his sentence._
> 
> _We cut back to the inside of the truck. Antoni has a tablet propped up on his knees, Karamo is behind the wheel, Jonathan, Bobby and Tan are sitting in the back._
> 
> KARAMO: Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier, guys! Our first actual celebrity hero!  
> JONATHAN: I mean, “celebrity”...
> 
> _Jonathan puts air quotes around the word._
> 
> ANTONI: Don’t be mean, Jonathan! He was big in the nineties!  
> JONATHAN: My point exactly.
> 
> _We observe Richie in his natural habitat: he lazily scratches his ass through his sweatpants while he fills a cup of instant noodles with boiling water from the electric kettle. Then he retreats back to his laptop with the steaming noodle cup and backspaces the short paragraph he has just typed into his document until there’s no trace of it left._
> 
> _Richie sighs deeply._
> 
> RICHIE (to himself): King of Adult Content, my ass.
> 
> _In the car, Antoni reads out loud from his tablet._
> 
> ANTONI: Richie was nominated by his childhood best friends Ben, Beverly, Mike, Eddie and - oh my god, Jonathan, you’re gonna regret being such a bitch just now - William Denbrough, the writer of _Kids in the Sewers._
> 
> _Jonathan gives a high-pitched screech._
> 
> JONATHAN: Oh my god, no way! Oh my god, I love him, I binged the entire show, I didn’t sleep for a week -  
> KARAMO: We _know_ , Jonathan -  
> BOBBY: You’ve been fangirling for literal months -  
> JONATHAN: You think he’s gonna be here? You think we’ll meet him?  
> ANTONI: I don’t know, Jonathan, but let me just - can you just shush for a second -
> 
> _He reads off the tablet._
> 
> ANTONI: Richie was nominated by William Denbrough and his friends, because they - well, frankly, it looks like they are a little concerned about his life choices.
> 
> _We cut to a number of talking heads with Richie’s nominators. First up: BILL DENBROUGH and MIKE HANLON on a sofa, framed against a vaguely church-y room in soft three-point lighting._
> 
> BILL: We all got washed up back in this town again a while back, but Richie is the only one who just g-got stuck.  
> MIKE: I mean, me, I’ve made my peace with this place, I like to live here, but I think for him it’s just - he doesn’t know where to go from here.  
> BILL: He’s been in the local motel for - how long has it been now, Mike?  
> MIKE: Coming up on a year, man. I offered my guest room a couple of times, but he always refused.  
> BILL: Yeah, I m-mean, we worry about him.
> 
> _Back in the Fab Five truck. Shocked faces all around._
> 
> BOBBY: A motel room for a _year_?! That can’t be good for his mental health.  
> KARAMO: Why would anyone do that to themselves?  
> ANTONI: Well, apparently Richie’s career has been taking a bit of a downward turn in the past year -  
> JONATHAN: Oof, we've seen it, henny, believe me. That video of him blanking?
> 
> _Jonathan cringes, a full body shudder._
> 
> ANTONI: - but it looks like he’s finally ready to admit that he needs some direction in both his personal and professional life, or we wouldn't be here, right?  
> TAN: Love that! Love a personal growth!  
> BOBBY: But a _motel room_? Really?
> 
> _Richie stands in front of his motel room’s battered bathroom mirror and tries to arrange his hair in a way that hides the fact that his forehead is steadily winning territory on his scalp. Eventually he sighs and gives up._
> 
> ANTONI: Have you guys ever seen Trashmouth perform?  
> BOBBY: I mean, not live -  
> JONATHAN: He was pretty much inescapable in the nineties, though.  
> TAN: I honestly don't even know who you are talking about.
> 
> _We cut to archive footage of Richie on stage. Some early gems of him with floppy hair and a shiny forehead, careening wildly around the stage, the audience crying with laughter. The time stamp marks the year as 1996. Then: Richie, older, increasingly hyperactive, playing increasingly massive locations. Then one of his later shows, timestamped 2018, produced in high quality with a multi-camera setup. Richie wears a blazer over a t-shirt, his demeanor still twitchy, but more controlled, more streamlined._
> 
> RICHIE: ...and I was like: Five thousand dollars for a _handbag_? That’s almost half of my original collector’s edition light saber, woman!
> 
> _The audience explodes in a roar of laughter and applause._
> 
> _We cut to another round of talking heads in front of the same backdrop, this time with BEVERLY MARSH and BEN HANSCOM._
> 
> BEVERLY: I mean, Richie - he’s literally the funniest person I know. I don’t know when he lost track of that.  
> BEN: You should have seen him during his middle school lunch hour sugar highs. Eddie and him were unstoppable. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard since.
> 
> _Cut to EDDIE KASPBRAK in front of the same backdrop._
> 
> EDDIE: I mean, he’s an asshole, but yeah, he can be hilarious. (beat) Don’t tell him I said that, though.
> 
> _Back in the Fab Five truck, Antoni scrolls down in Richie’s briefing._
> 
> ANTONI: Richie actually has a Netflix special coming up, and this Friday he’ll preview some of it in front of his original audience, the people of Derry, Maine.  
> KARAMO: Aw, a comeback story! How sweet is that!
> 
> _We cut to Richie, sitting on his motel bed. In stark contrast to his nominators’ talking heads, his background is dark and messy. Richie has his arms crossed in front of his chest._
> 
> RICHIE: I mean, yeah, the special… that’s gonna be great. That’s gonna be - that’s gonna be _something_ , for sure. (beat) Well, I mean, at least this time when I get booed off the stage for blanking, I’m gonna look like a functional grown-up human being, am I right?
> 
> _He grins unconvincingly. We cut back to the Fab Five. A slightly awkward silence, interrupted by Antoni._
> 
> ANTONI: Well, looks like our mission this week is pretty clear cut: Let’s turn the King of Adult Content… drumroll please… into a content adult!
> 
> _The Fab Five cheer._
> 
> _Cue: OPENING CREDITS, which end on a TITLE CARD:_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> DAY 1: LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION

  
  


\---

“If you could say that again, but, like, slow it down a little this time,” the man-bunned production assistant behind the camera says to Eddie, who is trapped on the sofa behind a mic stand, lights, and a tripod with a camera on top of it, sweating bullets and staring at the spotlight ahead of him like it’s the fucking deadlights.

“And you guys.” The production assistant turns to the rest of the Losers in the kitchen, “could you keep it down, please? We’re rolling.”

Richie squeezes the rest of his body through the door, taking care not to make a sound, and melts into the deep shadow at the edge of the room. In the soft light of Mike’s kitchen, the Losers look like the textbook diverse group of middle-aged friends from a sparkling cider commercial. So far nobody has spotted him, which is all the better for it, because the folded call sheet in Richie’s back pocket has him stay put in the motel waiting for the Fab Five, while the rest of his friends are scheduled to film talking heads at Mike’s with the second unit. As if that was something Richie would miss out on.

They have turned Mike’s space into a movie set, lights set up all around the sofa. They throw sharp shadows onto the open beams and shingles of the bell tower, creating the fire-and-brimstone feeling of a pagan church. The one thing the film crew didn’t manage to exorcise is the heavy, dusty library smell of wood, leather and paper, which leaves at least one layer of familiarity to the room.

There’s a different sort of familiarity in seeing Mike, Bev, Ben, Bill and Eddie together again, a feeling attached to it that’s buried deep in Richie’s chest, and that Richie hasn’t prodded enough to identify. It’s doesn’t feel like it’s been a year since he’s seen them together. If anything, it feels incredible how he has _not_ seen them for a year.

For weeks now, production has been arriving in a slow trickle of strangers with big city haircuts, producers, researchers, the remodeling crew, shaking hands, borrowing keys, taking measurements, snapping pictures, when really, the only people Richie has actually been waiting for were them. In the group chat, the Losers were talking about it like the circus was coming to town, planning their trips back to Derry. Whatever the fuck this is good for, at least they're coming back. But Richie can’t shake the feeling that instead of being a spectator like them, he’s being set up to be the fucking clown in this.

“Uh, slower,” Eddie says, swallowing dryly. “Right.”

He shifts his weight around on his sofa spot, stiff and uncomfortable, and Richie wonders if he’s still in pain. Last time he saw Eddie he had a patch on his cheek and a hole in his chest, a scary amount of tubes going in and out of him, and he was so doped up on painkillers he could barely move. But that was before his wife had him shipped off to a fancy sports rehab facility in upstate New York where apparently they can work miracles, so who knows.

“Go,” the production assistant says, giving Eddie a cue with his finger. Eddie nods, clears his throat and starts again.

“Richie?” Eddie’s TV voice is high-pitched and over-enunciated, the same way he sounds over the phone. “Uh, he’s a fucking hoarder, it’s disgusting. I mean, seriously, it was between you guys and a fucking exterminator. But anyways, if anyone can pull the trick, it’s your gays, right? I mean, your guys. The guys.”

“Could you just say Fab Five?”

“Uh, right. Fab Five.”

“In a sentence. _If anyone can pull the trick_ -”

“Hey, what the fuck?” Eddie says suddenly, his voice jumping an octave. “Is he supposed to be here? Is he supposed to hear this?”

It’s only then that Richie realizes Eddie has spotted him, is looking right at him past the headlights, and every other face in the room is turning towards him, too.

Richie blinks. “Oh, hi Eds!” He wishes he could be anything but an asshole about this, but Eddie’s familiar high-strung energy hits Richie like a freight train, and his brain jumps straight to defense. So he just raises his hand and adds a shit-eating wave to his shit-eating grin.

“I’m gonna hear it anyways, Eddiecakes,” he says. “You’re on tape, so be nice.”

“Oh Jesus,” the production assistant says, fumbling for the walkie-talkie on his belt, and then, into his walkie, “Yeah, he’s here. Sorry, I only just noticed. Yeah. Yeah. Will do. Thanks.”

He clips the walkie-talkie to the back to his waist and puts his hand on Richie’s upper arm. “You’re really not supposed to be here, Richie.”

“See?” Eddie says. “Get your own fucking close-up, Garbo.”

“They need you at the motel,” the assistant continues. “Your call time was an hour ago.” He takes another call on his walkie and nods, satisfied. “Driver will be here in a second to pick you up.” He offers Richie his hand to shake. “I’m Rob, by the way. I manage the second unit.”

“Richie fucking Tozier,” Beverly says, ignoring Rob and throwing her arms around Richie, the other Losers trailing behind her from the kitchen. “Center of attention, as always.” She holds his face in an iron grip and gives him a scrutinizing look. “How have you been?”

“Apparently I had to start doing reality TV before anyone started giving a shit about me,” Richie says. “But you guys,” he looks from her to Ben, both sunkissed, both looking sickeningly happy. “You came back to fucking Derry for _this_? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Ben says, slapping Richie’s shoulders with both hands and giving them a good squeeze, at the same time as Bev says, “For you, Rich.” She’s the kindest fucking person Richie knows. Mike puts his arm around her and Ben, and then Bill joins them, too, a mug of coffee in his hand and an appropriately sheepish look on his face.

“Look at what you did, Denbrough,” Richie says, pointing at Eddie on the couch. “You’re gonna give Eds a fucking stomach ulcer with the stress.”

“Hey, watch it!” Eddie pipes up from where’s he’s still trapped behind the mic stand.

“Sorry, Eddiebear,” Richie says, “of course you’re the image of relaxed professionalism.” In the sharp light on the sofa Richie can clearly see the scar on Eddie’s cheek, healed into a pink indent right underneath his right cheekbone, making him look more dashing than a forty-something risk analyst from New York has any right to be. “You know if you ask them nicely they’re gonna give you lady pads to stick into your armpits. Avoids the nasty patches.” Richie gestures to his underarm and feels a satisfactory bout of glee when Eddie nervously checks his own immaculate polo shirt for sweat stains.

“Fuck you, Tozier,” Eddie says, and Beverly cackles.

“Leave him alone, Rich!”

“Hey, Richie,” Rob the production assistant cuts in. “Car’s downstairs for you now.” He checks his watch and sighs, then claps his hands. “And for the rest of you, if we could keep the professional atmosphere and get straight back to business that would be great -”

Richie can see Eddie’s shoulders instantly go rigid again.

“Chill, Eddie,” he says. “It’s just running your mouth about how bad I am at being alive. Should come easy to you, right? And if you fuck up they’ll edit it out.”

“Yeah?” Eddie says. “Like they did with you?” He goes into a full impression of Richie’s viral video, rigid neck and protruding shoulders, hands limp in front of his chest. “Uh… Richie… uh… Trashmouth… Trashmouth…”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Richie retorts. “I only do my mental breakdowns live on air.”

“That’s hilarious,” Eddie deadpans. “You should do comedy.”

Richie turns towards him, but some assistant’s assistant puts his hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Car's waiting, Richie.”

“Sorry, gotta go. I’m extremely vital to this operation,” Richie says with an apologetic shrug. He wants to say something else to ease the tension from Eddie's shoulders, but he can't think of anything light enough. “They'll love you, Eds, don't worry,” is what finally comes out. Bit too much. Richie pulls a face. “Just don't do anything I would do," he adds with a wry grin.

He gives Eddie two thumbs up, to which Eddie responds with two raised middle fingers, and that’s how Richie knows that Eddie, in the end, will be just fine.

  
  


\---

  
  


> _The Fab Five’s black truck pulls up in front of the Derry Motel, an L-shaped two-story structure with an open walkway to the front._
> 
> TAN: So am I getting this right? He’s living in a hotel?  
> JONATHAN: A _motel_ , honey, that's a big difference, just, like, vibe-wise.  
> BOBBY: This is so much worse than I thought.
> 
> _The Fab Five climb out of the truck and approach the motel’s front. The surrounding trees are spotting colorful fall leaves, and both Jonathan and Tan are wrapped in massive shawls._
> 
> JONATHAN: Very Bates’ Motel, very on brand with the True Crime chic.  
> KARAMO: Seriously, what is it with you white people and True Crime?  
> ANTONI: It’s Derry, Maine, Karamo! There's nothing to do here except getting [bleep]ing murdered.
> 
> _Antoni leads the group up a flight of stairs and along the wooden walkway connecting the front doors_.
> 
> ANTONI: 204, 205, 206 - here we are. 206.  
> TAN: Are you gonna knock?
> 
> _The camera catches a Do Not Disturb sign on the handle of the motel room’s door, on which someone has added an expletive in sharpie. The respective section of the sign is, of course, blurred out._
> 
> BOBBY: Charming.  
> ANTONI: Wait, what if I knock and it's, like, Norman Bates?  
> JONATHAN: Honey, I’d take Norman Bates. Have you _seen_ Anthony Perkins in Psycho? He can get it.
> 
> _Tan knocks and the door immediately opens, revealing the tall, slightly hunched over figure of Richie Tozier feigning surprise._
> 
> RICHIE: Oh. You’re here!
> 
> _We cut to camera B that’s already set up inside the motel room, watching over Richie’s shoulder as the Fab Five bolt into the tiny room._
> 
> KARAMO: Richie! Nice to meet you!  
> JONATHAN: Oh Christ, it _is_ Anthony Perkins. Jesus, let me _sit_ on those shoulders.
> 
> _Karamo wraps Richie in a hug, which Richie stiffly reciprocates. The other Fab Five greet Richie with handshakes, already craning their heads around the room, taking in the general chaos of it._
> 
> _Richie’s space is littered with trash. Cans of soda on the nightstand, empty pizza cartons and laundry all over the floor, a lonely sock hanging over a ventilator blade. One corner is occupied by an open suitcase that looks like it has vomited its contents all over the place: denim that looks stiff with grime, underwear, and an impressive collection of garishly patterned shirts._
> 
> BOBBY: Okay, I'm beginning to see a hoarder problem.  
> TAN: Do you mind if we look around a little?  
> RICHIE: Uh, do I have a choice?
> 
> _The Fab Five begin scanning the room for their area of expertise. Tan squats by the suitcase in the corner, gingerly sorting through the clothes in it._
> 
> TAN: Hawaiian, Hawaiian, Hawaiian, Hawaiian… Richie, please tell me that’s not the extent of your closet.  
> RICHIE: I mean - gotta stick with the brand, right? Also, I'm not really getting the whole closet thing.  
> JONATHAN: None of us are, honey.  
> TAN: Okay so, just so I get this straight: This suitcase is what we’re working with this week. That’s all the clothes you’ve got.  
> RICHIE: Like I said, the brand.  
> TAN (bracing himself): Got it. Okay, got it.
> 
> _Jonathan and Richie are crammed into the tiny motel bathroom in front of Richie’s spotty mirror._
> 
> JONATHAN: Walk me through the Richie Tozier grooming routine real quick.  
> RICHIE: Oh, _real_ quick? I mean, I shower.
> 
> _There's a short awkward silence in which Jonathan realizes Richie is not going to add anything to that list._
> 
> JONATHAN: Right. And this whole situation…?
> 
> _Jonathan rearranges the thin bangs on Richie’s forehead, coming to a similarly defeated conclusion as Richie earlier._
> 
> RICHIE: Yup, that’s - that's what I’m working with in that department.
> 
> _We cut to Jonathan’s talking head._
> 
> JONATHAN: I mean, honey. I get the whole pressure of being on stage, being in the public eye, but a) male pattern baldness is nothing to be ashamed of, and b) there’s really no way to hide it with a haircut. I can see you tried, but like. No.
> 
> _Karamo picks apart the trash on Richie’s nightstand - beer bottles, a half-smoked joint in an ashtray, the odd crumpled paper tissue. He gingerly picks one up and drops it with a disgusted expression. Cut to his talking head._
> 
> KARAMO: I’m looking around this room and I’m reading pure teenager. There is so much to unpack in that space. And I mean _literally_. The man hasn’t unpacked a suitcase in his life.
> 
> _Antoni inspects the hot water kettle that’s sitting on a sideboard by the door, and the stack of instant noodles next to it. When the drawer underneath reveals a single tablespoon, Antoni’s expression grows increasingly desperate._
> 
> ANTONI: Cool. Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool.
> 
> _Meanwhile, Bobby has Richie sit down at his desk, inspecting the chair and the derelict laptop set up on the fold-down table by the wall._
> 
> BOBBY: So this is where the magic happens, this is where you write?
> 
> _Richie snorts and pushes a stack of paper to the side._
> 
> RICHIE: Oh, that’s not mine. Credit goes to my ghostwriter, Steve, he's great. I just give notes.  
> BOBBY: Ghostwriter? Wait, so you don’t write your own material at all?  
> RICHIE: You know how they say if you put a chimpanzee in front of a typewriter for long enough he'll come up with Dostoevsky? It's kinda like that with me, only apparently I haven’t been trying for long enough.  
> BOBBY: The whole workspace situation isn't really helping, is it?
> 
> _Bobby jiggles the wooden chair Richie is sitting on - it’s close to falling apart, squeaking and tilting dangerously when Bobby pulls on the backrest._
> 
> RICHIE: Uh, yeah, the trick is to try to move as little as possible.  
> BOBBY: Right... And how's your back, Richie?  
> RICHIE: That's what she said, right?  
> BOBBY (deadpan): What _he_ said, in my case.  
> RICHIE: Touché, dude.
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _We cut to the Fab Five and Richie gathered on the motel bed in the middle of the room._
> 
> KARAMO: Okay, so now that we've got the general picture, I'm just gonna address the elephant in the room real quick. Why this?
> 
> _He gestures at the surroundings with an expression of genuine perplexity._
> 
> KARAMO: We heard you have a house here in Derry, your parents' house - so why the motel? Is this part of your process, your method, or -  
> RICHIE: Dude, I wish. It’s just… man, it’s complicated.
> 
> _The Fab Five nod solemnly._
> 
> KARAMO: Okay I get that. I think all of us can attest to a sort of complicated relationship with our childhood homes, right?
> 
> _Nodding all around._
> 
> BOBBY: I mean, yes, I fully agree with everything Karamo is saying, but there are options between moving back into your childhood home and... this.  
> ANTONI: Yeah, like, what if you want to bring someone over? How do they react? _  
> _RICHIE: Oh, that's not something that's gonna happen anytime soon. _  
> _KARAMO: You seem pretty sure about that.  
>  RICHIE: Yeah, I _am_ pretty sure about that.
> 
> _Karamo shoots Richie a look but doesn’t ask further questions._
> 
> KARAMO: Right, okay, that's cool. But what about _you_? Why not at least treat yourself to a nice hotel? I’m just trying to get to the bottom of what this is. Do you have a habit of denying yourself comfort?  
> RICHIE: _Dude -  
> _ KARAMO: Am I way off?  
> RICHIE: Man, I’m not a [bleep]ing masochist. I’d love to book into the local hotel, but in the spirit of full disclosure, my friend Eddie got stabbed in the face there a year ago and after that the TripAdvisor ratings went way down -
> 
> _For a moment, the only sound in the room is the high-pitched whir of the ventilator overhead. The Fab Five exchange a couple of pointed glances. Finally, Jonathan clears his throat._
> 
> JONATHAN: About that… (beat) Like, I fully do not want to divert from your friend's tragedy, but we _did_ hear a couple of not so cute murder stories about this town.  
> TAN: Jonathan thinks they’re true, but you’re completely allowed to ignore him.  
> JONATHAN: Listen, I don’t _know_ if they’re true, but every once in a while you overdo it on the edibles and you go on an all night Dateline binge and I’m not trying to imply anything, but the name Derry does keep coming up. Like, you have a lot of missing persons cases around here. Like, _a lot_ a lot.  
> KARAMO: Richie, I’m not saying Jonathan is right, but this history, this atmosphere is something you grew up around, right? I can totally see how that might be one of the reasons you're struggling now. Like, if those incidents were something that was very present during your adolescence -
> 
> _Richie raises his shoulders and folds his arms, eyes determinedly on the rosebud pattern of his motel bed’s duvet, hesitating before he speaks. His voice is quiet when he does, a stark difference to his usual high-voltage babble._
> 
> RICHIE: Nah, I don't know... I mean, I guess a couple of kids disappeared when I was in middle school. Couple of people died recently, and the stabbing - I mean, what can I say, it was probably just, I don't know, bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time.
> 
> _The fingers of Richie's right hand dig into the biceps of his left arm. Karamo puts his hand on Richie’s shoulder._
> 
> KARAMO: Man, I'm sorry, that must have been tough.  
> ANTONI: But your friend, the one that got stabbed - he's okay, right?  
> RICHIE: Eddie? Oh yeah, he's tough. When we were twelve, he decided he was gonna be killed by germs and germs only, and he's not gonna let an asshole mental home escapee with a knife ruin his destiny.  
> JONATHAN: He sounds fun.  
> RICHIE: Oh, you have no idea, buddy.
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _From the Fab Five’s solemn faces, we cut to their much more pragmatic talking heads. Jonathan is counting on his fingers._
> 
> JONATHAN: With Richie, I’m seeing self-deprecation, I’m seeing self-isolation, I’m seeing a desperate need for attention, I’m definitely seeing ADHD tendencies, I’m seeing traumatic stuff in his past. Honestly, I’m kinda seeing someone I could have turned into once upon a time. _  
> _KARAMO: There’s just something about Richie that screams “uncomfortable”. He really seems almost like a teenager that way.  
>  TAN: Oh, Richie is definitely stuck in a sort of delayed adolescence. The way he dresses speaks volumes. I think I can help him find a look that will get him out of the manchild attitude and into something more appropriate for a man of his age and career.  
> BOBBY: I honestly can’t wait to see the house. I think there might be something in his past holding him back from, let’s say, unfolding his full potential. I think I can help Richie shed some baggage.  
> ANTONI: This man needs a community, this man needs his friends. I’m gonna give him the tools to gather his friends around a table for something other than instant noodles.  
> KARAMO: We need to get Richie out of his shell.  
> JONATHAN: Is it too late to turn this gorgeous little boat around and steer it towards a brighter future? Absolutely not. What that man needs is just, like, that little guiding touch, that little positive reassurance of “Honey, you are doing fine!” - and maybe a new haircut.  
> KARAMO: I want to find a way to make Richie feel like a grown-up again. Not in the stressful sense, but in the sense of having arrived somewhere, of feeling like a fully formed human.  
> JONATHAN: Yes, cute!
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _SCENE TRANSITION: Upbeat music. Bobby in black and white, dancing in front of a white backdrop._
> 
> _We blend through a couple of scenic views of Derry, ending outside a derelict house with a completely overgrown front lawn. The windows are dark and dusty, the front porch littered with dead leaves. On the street in front of the property, the Fab Five’s GMC pulls up. Bobby and Richie get out of the car. Richie shivers when he sees the house. Bobby inspects the front lawn._
> 
> BOBBY: Aw, wildflowers! That’s good for the bees!  
> RICHIE: The bees?  
> BOBBY: Yeah, lots and lots for them to pollinate! (beat) Judging by this overgrowth, it must’ve been a couple of years since you’ve been here, right?
> 
> _Richie swallows._
> 
> RICHIE: About twenty.  
> BOBBY: Twenty? Holy shit, that's a lot.
> 
> _They walk up to the front porch, where a swing seat is creaking in its hinges. Richie chooses a key from his massive, dangling key chain and opens the front door._
> 
> RICHIE: Welcome to the Tozier residence.
> 
> _Bobby and Richie step through the front door. The hallway looks untouched since the eighties. The walls are paneled with dark wood, family pictures still up in their dusty frames, the chunky runner on the floor bleached out where the light falls through the window of the front door._
> 
> BOBBY: Wow. Feels like a time capsule.
> 
> _While the Bobby explores the living room, Richie follows him around, his shoulders hunched forward, his arms still folded in front of his chest. Bobby finds a picture of middle school Richie on the window sill._
> 
> BOBBY: That’s you?  
> RICHIE: Yep. They kept telling me I’d “grow into my looks”, but well -  
> BOBBY: Well, you’ve got to give the boys a chance got get started!
> 
> _Bobby notices Richie’s stiff posture._
> 
> BOBBY: Hey, are you okay? This must be a lot for you.  
> RICHIE: Nah, it’s cool. The place just freaks me the [bleep] out. I'm surprised my mom's ghost hasn't manifested yet to smite us.  
> BOBBY: Oh?  
> RICHIE: We didn't take our shoes off.  
> BOBBY: Right. Let’s keep moving, huh?
> 
> _We follow Richie and Bobby into Richie’s old bedroom. The room looks untouched since Richie’s teenage years: Faded scifi centerfolds on the walls, action figures on the shelves, scattered comic books, there’s even a composition book on his desk that says RICHIE TOZIER, AP ENGLISH on the cover in curvy, childish handwriting._
> 
> BOBBY: Aw, you were a nerd!  
> RICHIE: Most sources would tell you I’m still a nerd, to be honest.
> 
> _Bobby leaves through a stack of comic books._
> 
> BOBBY: Most of this is, like, museum-worthy. I’m assuming your parents left it like this when you moved out?  
> RICHIE: I don’t know. We weren’t really in touch a lot before they passed.  
> BOBBY: Oh, I’m sorry, Richie.  
> RICHIE: Yeah, I mean, I was in LA trying every substance on the periodic table, so I guess that makes _me_ the dick in this.
> 
> _Bobby inspects a chunky walkie talkie he’s found in a box._
> 
> BOBBY: This is incredible. You should donate those to the next season of Stranger Things.
> 
> _Underneath the walkie talkie, Bobby finds a yellow audio cassette with a handwritten label stuck to it. He reads out the label._
> 
> BOBBY: Eduardo's Mixtape?
> 
> _Richie takes the cassette from Bobby’s hands and puts it into the back pocket of his jeans, maybe a touch too quickly._
> 
> RICHIE: That’s nothing. Just a stupid joke.
> 
> _Bobby digs deeper into the box. Crayon pictures, stuffed animals, random trinkets, a shower cap._
> 
> BOBBY: I’m guessing all of this holds enormous sentimental value to you.
> 
> _Richie shrugs, fingering the edge of the cassette stuck in his back pocket._
> 
> RICHIE: Nah, I’m good.  
> BOBBY: We’re obviously going to have to throw a lot of this out. How do you feel about that?
> 
> _Richie shrugs again._
> 
> RICHIE: Honestly, be my guest. I’m just glad I don’t have to do it myself. _  
> _BOBBY: Oh. Okay. I can be brutal. But you call me if you remember anything you might want to keep, okay? You call me anytime.  
>  RICHIE: Unlikely, but - sure.  
>   
>   
> 
> 
> _We cut to Richie and Bobby in the gloomy kitchen of the house. Everything dark wood, yellowish curtains keeping the light from falling through the windows._
> 
> BOBBY: Right, so I’ve seen a lot and - I gotta be honest, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of a connection between you and this place. Not to criticize or anything. Just an observation.
> 
> _Richie pulls his shoulders up._
> 
> RICHIE: It’s not like it was bad, growing up here. It’s just, thinking back… I mostly remember wanting to leave.
> 
> _Bobby nods._
> 
> BOBBY: I get that. I’m from a small town, too. (beat) I wanna be real with you about the remodel, though. I think we need a complete overhaul. There’s something really charming about some of the design elements, but honestly, I think we need something entirely different, something that feels more _you_. How do you feel about that? _  
> _RICHIE: I mean… it can’t get any worse, can it?
> 
> _Bobby laughs._
> 
> BOBBY: That’s - definitely one way to think about it. Any wishes, any notes at all you’d like to leave with me?
> 
> _Richie shrugs and shakes his head._
> 
> RICHIE: Nope. Honestly, I’m good with you just doing your job.
> 
> _Bobby looks a bit taken aback, but doesn’t argue._
> 
> BOBBY: Okay then. I guess I’ll have a full surprise for you on Friday!

  
  


\---

  
  


Bobby and the crew leave Richie at the house with a preliminary call sheet for the week and the driver from this morning parked in front of 68 Kaplan Street. After the flutter of sequinned fabric, the patter of feet through his space, and the hugs that smelled like expensive perfume, the sudden quiet leaves a vacuum in Richie's chest that makes it hard to breathe. Every night after his live shows Richie would end up sitting backstage with his brain blank and his legs bobbing, remembering nothing and wondering how he'd survived. He’s never gotten a taste of the high other performers talk about, instead every show crawls into his limbs like liquefied anxiety, sitting in his joints until he exorcises it with a good blunt. Thinking about it now, he tiredly wonders why he ever expected this to be any different.

“You got anything to smoke?” Richie asks his driver when he gets in on the passenger’s side. The kid’s barely twenty, skinny white wrists with too many bracelets on them, the baby attempt at a ponytail, acne still blooming on his cheeks. Richie thinks he's introduced himself as Matt earlier.

“Uh, no, Mr Tozier,” Matt says, “I don’t smoke.” He sounds startled, looks like he just got found out by his parents. The one thing Richie will never get used to is people looking at him and assuming he’s an adult. It’s fucking terrifying. Even in the mirror Richie only ever sees a very tall, forty-year-old child. Matt takes a left towards Jameson Road, which leads right down towards the Derry motel.

“Actually,” Richie says, suddenly feeling sick thinking about exchanging the dead quiet of his parents’ house for the dead quiet of his motel room, “could you drop me off where you picked me up this morning?”

“The library?” Matt asks warily. “Where your friend lives?”

Richie frowns at Matt’s tone. “Yeah,” he says. “Where my friend lives.”

  
  


  
  


Up in the bell tower, Mike has the same wary look on his face when he opens the door to Richie.

“Fuck,” Richie says, “did Jess tell _all_ of you to treat me like a fucking leper?”

Jess is the producer, who carries a clipboard wherever she goes and somehow manages to marry the personas of a drill sergeant and a preschool nanny in the body of a 25-year-old college level rugby player.

“Dude, not funny.” Eddie’s voice comes from the back of the room, and Richie’s heart picks up a step.

“How many of you are in there?” Richie asks, trying to peek past Mike’s shoulder. “Are you having a party without me?”

“It’s just me and Eddie,” Mike says, still stubbornly blocking the door. “The others are staying at Bill’s.”

“Dude, will you let me in?” Richie asks, trying to shoulder past him.

“Jess told us it’s not conducive to the cause if you keep hanging out with us this week,” Mike says, not even swayed by Richie’s attempts to wiggle through the door. “She said it’s better if you focus fully on your progress and your relationship with the Fab Five.” Mike looks so distraught about it, Richie is sure Jess literally pulled a gun on him and made him swear an oath on his dead parents.

“Mike, stop being such a fucking doormat,” Richie says. “Like I’m gonna go home and sit in a fucking motel room by myself all night, knowing that my friends are in town. What the fuck does Jess know about what we’ve been through?”

That works. With a resigned sigh Mike steps to the side to let him in. “Man, just don’t rat me out,” he says. Richie is already through the door.

Eddie is sitting in his accustomed spot on the couch, slumped back, his shirt collar crumpled, looking much more relaxed now than he was earlier with the lights and camera in his face. Mike’s place is mostly back to normal - production has cleared it completely, and what remains is only Mike’s comfortable, creative mess and the church-y smell of the building.

“Hey Eds, I --” Richie stops and sniffs. He’s getting a clear whiff of pot from that church-y smell tonight. “What the - who’s smoking?”

Eddie self-consciously pushes the ashtray away from himself on the couch table. Richie’s eyes widen.

“Edward Kaspbrak, is that a marijuana cigarette?” Richie says, crosses the room towards Eddie and bends down to examine the ashtray further. And, sure enough, in it rests the biggest fucking blunt Richie has seen in a long time. He looks up at Eddie, his mouth open with astonishment. “Dude!”

“Shut up, Richie, it’s _medicinal_ ,” Eddie says indignantly. “Have you ever heard of alternative pain medication?”

“Uh-hu, sure. _Medicinal_.” Richie picks up the joint and examines it. “Wouldn’t it be more on brand for you if it came in a little inhaler? Like your asthma meds but like, fun?”

“Fuck you, Richie.”

Richie flops down onto the sagging sofa next to Eddie. “Dude, I don’t mind if you get high. I mind if you don’t let me share,” he says. “You’re letting me share, right?” he adds, the joint already halfway to his lips.

“You’re a fucking freeloader, Tozier,” Eddie mumbles, but doesn’t do anything to stop him, which is enough of an invitation for Richie. With the first deep drag, he finds himself relax into the couch, into Eddie pressed to his side, and Eddie doesn’t move a muscle to do anything about it, which is how Richie knows Eddie’s already high. Richie makes a mental note to write a formal thank-you letter to whoever came up with this route of therapy for Eddie.

He puts the joint down and realizes Eddie is staring at him. “What?”

“They didn’t even do anything,” Eddie says, examining Richie’s face from close up. “You don’t even look different.” His voice falls somewhere in between relief and disappointment, and his eyes are already red-rimmed and bloodshot, and there’s still way over half of the joint left. _Merry fucking Christmas to me,_ Richie thinks.

“What did you expect? It’s reality TV,” he says. Eddie’s pupils are very big this close up, blown out black. The mixtape in Richie’s back pocket is uncomfortable to sit on. “It’s all fucking fake.”

The clinking of glass bottles alerts Richie to the presence of Mike, who has arrived at the sofa with beer, passing one bottle to Richie and keeping one for himself.

“Which is why,” Richie explains, turning to Mike, “you’re totally allowed to hang out with me, and also, you better let me have another go at this blunt, because I’m fucking done with this day.” He snatches the joint from Eddie’s fingers.

“It’s not a _blunt_ ,” Eddie insists, exasperated. “It’s a _herbal remedy_ -”

“The only remedy for stick-up-the-ass syndrome known to man,” Richie says, “and thank god they got you a prescription.”

“Fuck you, Richie,” Eddie repeats, but it comes out halfhearted, he’s already too high for real snide.

“How was it?” Mike asks, dropping onto the couch to Richie’s right. “The shoot, I mean.” With Mike’s weight on the other side, the sofa levels out, and Richie self-consciously scoots away from Eddie, passing the blunt to Mike instead, who, without even as much as looking at it, passes it back to Eddie.

Richie tries to hold on to a feeling about it through the rapidly approaching haze of the high. “It wasn’t _bad_ ,” he puts together. “It was just… I don’t know. Fully unnecessary. Them waltzing in there, commenting on my motel room, asking about my childhood trauma. Who do they think they’re serving with that?” Richie is surprised to find anger there, in the haze. He takes a swing of his beer. “Seriously, if Ollie didn’t have his fucking foot on my neck, I’d just politely tell them to fuck off, but I guess it is what it is.” He sniffs and allows the pot to soften the edges of the feeling in his chest before he contorts his body to pull the call sheet out of the back pocket he’s sitting on, careful not to confuse it with the mixtape one. “They’re taking me to Debrah’s tomorrow to get my haircut.”

“Debrah Coltrane?” Eddie asks, horrified. “Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know, it just says here.” Richie points to the section of the call sheet that lists the locations for the day. “I hope they’re just using the salon.”

“Listen,” Eddie says, “you get up and run before you let Debbie Coltrane touch your hair.”

“It _is_ beyond ironic,” Richie says, “that the twelve year old bitch who put gum in your hair one time, Eds, now owns the hair salon on Main Street, but I still maintain that it was your mom who was really to blame for that tragic buzz cut. We all know it wasn’t Debbie Coltrane who wielded those clippers.”

“Yeah, but I mean,” Eddie mumbles, rolling his eyes. “What _aren’t_ we blaming my mom for?”

“Those fine genetics,” Richie says, grabbing Eddie’s chin with one hand and squeezing it. “Definitely not blaming your mom for those looks.”

Eddie pushes Richie’s hand off his face. “Well, not all of us got so lucky in that department, huh?” he says, running his hand through Richie’s hair. “At least there’s not a lot left for Debrah to ruin.”

“Fuck off, Eddie,” Richie says and takes good care not to move a muscle. Eddie’s hand slides off the back of Richie’s head and comes to rest heavily on his shoulder. Richie takes a deep, shuddering breath. _Fuck, where were you, Eddie_ , he thinks, _where were you this entire time?_

“But seriously,” Eddie says, licking his lips. “Be careful out there. Don’t let them, like, mess you up.” His eyes are drowsy, and for once there’s not a sharp edge about him. The weed makes Eddie soft in a way Richie only remembers from way back before puberty, before the fucking clown, before they had their guards up, before any of it counted, and it makes Richie want to melt a little.

“Don’t worry, Eds,” Richie says. “I think as far as getting messed up goes, I’ve just about reached my limit.”

  
  


  
  


“How is he?” Richie asks Mike later, when Eddie has fallen asleep against the back of the couch, mouth open, snoring softly with each rise and fall of his chest. “I mean, how is he _really_?”

Mike gives him one of those long looks that have made Richie feel stupid and obvious since eighth grade. “You could have just asked him that.”

“Yeah, I know, I -” Richie waves the thought away with one hand. “Ah, Mike, you know how he gets.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Forget I asked.”

They’re at the door, Richie already halfway out of it. Somehow he always pushes it to the very last second, asking the important questions. His brain tricks him into thinking that will make everybody believe he doesn’t really care, when in reality Richie is beginning to suspect that it achieves the exact opposite effect.

“He’s doing good,” Mike says slowly. “The rehab people in New York really are miracle workers, apparently.”

“Good,” Richie says. He casts a look back at Eddie on the couch, passed out, completely peaceful. He almost expects Eddie’s hands to twitch like the paws of a dreaming dog.

“Why isn’t he always like that,” Richie asks, all mushy with the weed and the beer and his friends and the exhaustion that comes with accommodating five complete strangers in his narrow little life.

“Like what?” Mike asks with a slight smile. “High?”

“Soft,” Richie says, and remembers too late the guard he’s supposed to keep up. He shakes his head to erase the last word. “Never mind,” he says.

“Well,” Mike says, raising an eyebrow, “maybe if you were less of a bitch to him every once in a while. That could help.”

“ _Me_?” Richie scoffs, half-joking. “A bitch to _him_? Please.”

But Mike just smirks and nods and decides, wisely, not to push it.

  
  


\---

  
  


> DAY 2: BREAKING CHARACTER
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Jonathan and Richie enter a hair salon that looks like it's stuck in the nineties, including the appropriate high fashion haircuts on faded posters on the walls, and the owner, who sports one of them like they didn’t go out of style in a long gone millennium. Jonathan, wearing a tight velvet top, an emerald green sequinned skirt and heels, greets the owner enthusiastically, while Richie, in his usual leather jacket, t-shirt and jeans, follows a little hesitatingly._
> 
> JONATHAN: You’re Debrah? Cute! I brought a guest today for a little haircut. That’s Richie - Debrah -  
> DEBRAH: Oh, I remember him.
> 
> _Debrah glares at Richie, who returns a dead-eyed smile._
> 
> JONATHAN: You two know each other?  
> DEBRAH: We’re childhood friends.  
> RICHIE: Childhood _enemies_ , Debrah. Come on, let’s not gloss over history.  
> JONATHAN: God, I love small towns.
> 
> _Jonathan escorts Richie to a barber’s chair at the far end of the room._
> 
> JONATHAN: Take a seat, Sir.
> 
> _A little stiff in the joints, Richie climbs onto the chair._
> 
> JONATHAN: We usually do the haircut towards the end of the week, you know, like, as a finishing touch, but I specifically called dibs on you today. Firstly, because you’re gorgeous, obviously, and secondly because I was thinking, why not, like, chisel the marble a bit before all the other boys get their grubby little hands on you, am I right?  
> RICHIE: Uh, I mean, be my guest. Chisel away.
> 
> _Jonathan mounts a backless rolling chair and rolls up behind Richie, their eyes meeting in the full length mirror in front of them. Jonathan buries his hands in Richie’s hair and parts it into sections._
> 
> JONATHAN: Level with me for a second here. How much of this is brand and how much of this is “Uh, I haven’t been to a hairdresser’s in two years”?  
> RICHIE: It’s all brand, actually. I was voted Approachable Slacker of the Year in 2001 and my manager has been very attached to the look since.  
> JONATHAN: Right. So he’ll have something to say when I chop it all off.  
> RICHIE: He might sue you for reparations.  
> JONATHAN: Honey, there’s nothing to repair here, I’m sorry. He’s gonna have to live with it.
> 
> _Jonathan fusses around in Richie’s hair for a little longer, with Richie watching him through the mirror._
> 
> JONATHAN: Honey, I promise you, when I’m done with you, we’ll unearth a whole new subset of audience who are gonna want to call you Daddy. I honestly cannot _wait_ for you to see this.  
> RICHIE: Sounds, um - great.
> 
> _We jump-cut through a montage of Jonathan cutting Richie’s hair. Richie now sits turned away from the mirror, Jonathan’s expression is deeply focused and professional, Richie is beginning to relax._
> 
> JONATHAN: Yeeesss, henny, I am feeling this, I am _feeling_ this!
> 
> _Loose hair begins to collect around Richie’s chair. With dramatic flourish, Jonathan cuts the last tips, then runs his fingers through Richie’s damp hair._
> 
> JONATHAN: Right. Haircut - done. And now for the fun part.
> 
> _He takes out a leather wrap with shaving utensils in it._
> 
> JONATHAN: So, Richie. Have you ever had a straight razor shave?
> 
> _Richie laughs nervously._
> 
> RICHIE: Is that what’s happening right now?  
> JONATHAN: Oh, that is _so_ what’s happening right now. Do you trust me?  
> RICHIE: Uh -  
> JONATHAN: Great!
> 
> _Richie’s shoulders look rigid as Jonathan tips the barber chair back and lathers Richie’s cheeks with shaving foam. Underneath his hairdressing cape, Richie has his arms folded in front of his chest. Jonathan brings the razor up to Richie’s cheek and gently shaves a first line of pink skin from the white foam._
> 
> JONATHAN: See? It’s a breeze.
> 
> _Jonathan wipes off his razor on Richie’s bib. Richie carefully exhales._
> 
> JONATHAN: Actually, while I have you - what I’ve been meaning to ask you -
> 
> _He pulls another straight line across Richie’s cheek and wipes his razor._
> 
> JONATHAN: About the jokes you do.  
> RICHIE: Really? _Now_?  
> JONATHAN: You actually can’t talk right now. Don't worry, I’ll start with the rhetorical questions. Don’t twitch.
> 
> _Another shave, another wipe._
> 
> JONATHAN: I mean, I’m not gonna lie, I wasn’t a fan when I heard you’d be our hero this week. Like, nothing personal, it’s just - I had seen your stuff, and you know your jokes are super offensive, right? Lord knows I’m not opposed to a good dick joke, but what you do is just - so far south of, like, what we typically call “political correctness”, like, it’s not even - it’s just _mean_. I’m not telling you anything new here, right? And also there’s a reason I’m asking this now, while you can’t run, and also I’m armed.
> 
> _He playfully flips the razor in front of Richie’s face. Richie has his shoulders pulled up almost to his ears._
> 
> RICHIE: Listen, I have ghostwriters -  
> JONATHAN: But you approve what they write. And then you perform it, to mass audiences. (beat) Like, let’s not pretend like you don’t know the bit I’m talking about. The f-word bit? You know. The wig, the wrist, the lisp, the whole thing?
> 
> _Richie shifts uncomfortably in his chair._
> 
> RICHIE: That was in the early 2000s, you know the shit we could get away with in the early 2000s? I don’t know why people still bring that up, they still give me that [bleep]ing picture to sign.  
> JONATHAN: Mh, don’t move your mouth now.
> 
> _Jonathan starts shaving Richie’s upper lip._
> 
> JONATHAN: You know what, it doesn’t even really matter. What’s with all the punching down, Richie, is what I want to know. Jokes about, you know, people of color, gay people, trans people, women… I mean, toxic masculinity really is the least of your problems, and that's saying something. I know these things don’t matter much to straight white people, you guys don’t really have a feeling of how that shit hits you right here. But like, it hits.
> 
> _The straight razor still in his hand, Jonathan gestures to his own chest. We cut to Jonathan’s talking head._
> 
> JONATHAN: It was really important to me to bring that up with him. Especially in comedy, there’s often, like, just such a fundamental lack of understanding of the consequences a simple joke can have on a member of a minority. Like, often it’s not even consciously bad intentions, it’s just a basic lack of empathy. And sometimes you just gotta give a person the chance to see the world through your eyes, and that’s all they need to grow.
> 
> _Back in the salon, Jonathan is choking up._
> 
> JONATHAN: It, like, it manifests, right there in your chest. (beat) And you know, being called the f-word in high school -
> 
> _His voice breaks. He soldiers on._
> 
> JONATHAN: That sticks. And seeing a comedian on TV doing the same thing, even if it’s just a joke… that just tells the bullies it’s okay to say that. And what’s worse is, it tells _you_ it’s okay for them to keep saying that.
> 
> _Richie has shrunk into his seat. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarse._
> 
> RICHIE: I was called a fag in high school.
> 
> _Jonathan lowers his razor._
> 
> JONATHAN: Feels like shit, doesn't it?
> 
> _He just looks at Richie for a moment, eye to eye._
> 
> RICHIE: Yeah.
> 
> _Richie swallows and nods, Jonathan got his point across. Suddenly all business again, Jonathan wipes his razor on Richie’s bib for the last time. Then he lathers Richie’s face in aftershave._
> 
> JONATHAN: There, all done. Soft like a newborn bébé. Wanna take a look?
> 
> _Richie looks a little whip-lashed at the sudden change of pace._
> 
> RICHIE: Wait, are we good?  
> JONATHAN: Uh, yeah! I think you got it. Good talk, babe.
> 
> _Jonathan whips the hairdressing cape off Richie’s shoulders, palms a bit of product into his hair, arranges a couple of strands, and turns Richie's chair towards the mirror behind them. Richie blinks numbly until Jonathan pushes his glasses back on his nose. Richie’s mouth falls open._
> 
> RICHIE: Oh -
> 
> _Richie is fully clean-shaven now, his hair a lot shorter, accentuating his high forehead._
> 
> JONATHAN: Do you like it?  
> RICHIE: It’s - it’s different.
> 
> _Jonathan steps behind Richie and runs his hands over the sides of his fresh haircut._
> 
> JONATHAN: I took the sides and the back in a little, just gave it a little more shape. And the bangs had to go. I’m sorry, but if they were supposed to hide that receding hairline of yours they were doing a piss poor job of it. But do you see how this is, like, much cleaner? You’re owning it, honey!
> 
> _Richie smiles nervously, touching his smooth chin and turning his head from one side to the other to see Jonathan’s work._
> 
> RICHIE: No, I - I think I like it. The shave -  
> JONATHAN: I’m gonna tell you a secret: I actually like you better with the five o’clock shadow, but that will grow back in in no time. The shave was mainly a trust exercise.  
> RICHIE (sarcastically): Oh, was it?  
> JONATHAN: It worked, right? You’d put your life in my hands now.
> 
> _Richie laughs nervously._
> 
> RICHIE: Feels like I already did.  
> JONATHAN: And did I kill you? No. Trust established. That’s how it works, honey.
> 
> _We cut back to Jonathan’s talking head._
> 
> JONATHAN: You know what? I think he _did_ learn something today. I know it’s, like, self care not to engage with your bullies, but I’d much rather sit down with a bully for an hour and explain my point of view to them than go on hating them for another twenty years, you feel? I mean, most of the time you learn they were just dealing with their own internalized shit, you just learn a little empathy, and if you’re lucky, they do, too. So yeah. Clean shave. Lesson in humility. Incredible haircut. All in a day’s work.
> 
> _He snaps his fingers and smiles brightly into the camera._
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _SCENE TRANSITION: Upbeat music. Jonathan and Tan in black and white, dancing wildly in front of a white background. Then -_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _The Fab Five truck pulls up in front of a deserted strip mall, most of the shop fronts empty or boarded up, except for a modern looking men’s fashion store that still has some balloons from its recent opening attached to the front of it. Tan and Richie are getting out of the truck._
> 
> RICHIE: And they say retail in Derry is dead.  
> TAN: Looks quite nice, doesn’t it? I was as surprised as you are to find this here.
> 
> _Tan holds the door for Richie as they enter. The interior is bright and vaguely industrial. Outfits are displayed on headless mannequins, clothes laid out on tall, airy shelves, big tables made of light, raw wood and heavy-looking brass pipe clothes racks._
> 
> TAN: I’m assuming you haven’t been here before?  
> RICHIE: Did my complete lack of appropriate clothes give me away?  
> TAN: Fair enough. (beat) Before we take a little look around, Richie, why don’t you step in front of this mirror for me for a second.
> 
> _Richie, his faded t-shirt, greasy leather jacket and ripped jeans in stark contrast to the immaculately suited Tan, takes a few awkward steps in front of the full-length mirror in the back of the room. Tan gingerly pries the leather jacket off Richie’s shoulders._
> 
> TAN: Let’s just do away with _that_ real quick...
> 
> _In lieu of a dumpster, he discards the jacket on an empty chair, then steps back behind Richie in the mirror._
> 
> TAN: When you look at yourself like that, what do you see?  
> RICHIE: Uh, human equivalent of a slinky? Now with a slightly better haircut.  
> TAN: I do love your haircut. Jonathan did a fantastic job. However - I’m gonna take you up on that slinky comment.
> 
> _Tan steps up behind Richie and puts his hands on his shoulders._
> 
> TAN: Do you know what we call these?  
> RICHIE: Uh, shoulders?  
> TAN: Well, yes. But in fashion, we call this specific shape of shoulder a coat hanger shoulder. Very broad, very straight. _Very_ enviable. That plus your height - what you have here, Richie, is the men's fashion equivalent of a size zero. Whatever we put on those shoulders is going to fall like a dream, I promise you.
> 
> _Richie makes a vaguely incredulous sound._
> 
> TAN: Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’ve made Pete Davidson look like a professional adult, I can handle you. Let’s try something on, shall we?
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Cut to the changing rooms. Tan hands a couple of pieces through the gap between the heavy linen curtains and waits for Richie to change._
> 
> TAN: Are you decent? Would you mind stepping out for me?
> 
> _With his shoulders hunched forward, Richie walks back into the showroom. Tan’s face immediately lights up. Richie’s wearing a pair of skinny light pants over a boot, a white t-shirt and a light blue, unbuttoned shirt on top. Tan directs Richie in front of the mirror. Richie doesn’t look too sure about his new outfit._
> 
> TAN: That’s not half bad, is it? What do you think?  
> RICHIE: Hm. I mean, it smells better -
> 
> _He turns back and forth in front of the mirror, his shoulders still slouching._
> 
> TAN: Well, about your slinky problem -
> 
> _Tan puts one hand on the small of Richie’s back and one on his shoulder, straightening him out._
> 
> TAN: It’s all about posture. See? No matter what you wear, it’s gonna look better if you keep your head up and your shoulders straight.
> 
> _Tan bustles around Richie, smoothing out his collar, tugging on his seams, rolling up his shirt sleeves._
> 
> TAN: Voilà. I just want to make one thing very clear, you’re giving me just as much to work with as my regular client. Perhaps even slightly more than Pete Davidson. You are one sexy man.
> 
> _Richie laughs nervously. He clearly doesn’t know what to do with his hands, confronted with his own full-size mirror image._
> 
> TAN: How does that make you feel when I say that?  
> RICHIE: Like you’re trying to get me to go back behind the dumpsters with you and then you’re gonna steal my lunch money.  
> TAN: That’s - oddly specific.  
> RICHIE: Let’s say it’s not a great feeling.
> 
> _Tan gives him a thoughtful look_.
> 
> TAN: I want to try something, Richie.
> 
> _Tan dives between the clothes racks and returns with an elegantly patterned Hawaiian shirt in brown, green and blue. It’s made from a heavier, smoother fabric than Richie’s usual selection, looking sleek and high-class and pretty damn expensive._
> 
> TAN: It’s a little different from what you usually wear, but let me just…
> 
> _Tan helps Richie out of the blue shirt and into the Hawaiian._
> 
> TAN: Why, _hello there_ , Mr Tozier! Does that feel a little more you?  
> RICHIE: I mean, that’s _nice_. That’s really nice.
> 
> _He turns in front of the mirror, inspecting his new look, the shadow of a smile on his face._
> 
> TAN: I looked into your recent on-stage stuff, and you’re mostly wearing some sort of t-shirt and suit jacket combination.  
> RICHIE: Yeah, my manager thinks it makes me look “appropriate, yet relatable”.  
> TAN: And what do you think?  
> RICHIE: It makes me look like a tool.
> 
> _Tan laughs._
> 
> TAN: That would be one way to put it.
> 
> _He buttons up Richie’s shirt halfway over the t-shirt and tugs it into the front of his pants._
> 
> TAN: You don’t want your outfits to be wearing you. This, I thought, would make way more sense for you to wear on stage. It would be more of a callback to the old Trashmouth days. Not quite the loud Hawaiian you used to wear, but a sort of echo of it. Still _you_ , but elevated. (beat) What do you think, is this something that you could see yourself wearing for your show on Friday?  
> RICHIE: Uh -  
> TAN: What, did you have something else planned?
> 
> _Richie swallows hard and exhales sharply. He suddenly looks a little pale. Tan puts his hand on Richie’s arm._
> 
> TAN: Richie, are you okay? _  
> _RICHIE: I’m good. I’m good, just give me a sec -
> 
> _Richie visibly sways, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and Tan pulls a nearby chair behind him to sit Richie down on it. Richie slumps down gratefully._
> 
> RICHIE: Maybe I should change out of this, just in case I -
> 
> _He swallows again, his breath going flat. Tan squats down in front of Richie, one hand still on his arm._
> 
> TAN: Hey, can I get you anything? Some water? Sugar?
> 
> _He looks over his shoulder at someone behind the camera, gesturing for a bottle of water. Richie shakes his head and laughs dryly._
> 
> RICHIE: It’s just [bleep]ing stage fright, it’s a [bleep]ing joke. It happens all the time, I’ll get over it in a minute.
> 
> _Richie balls his hand to a fist, his knuckles white, pressing it into the palm of his other hand._
> 
> TAN: Stage fright? Because I mentioned the show?  
> RICHIE: Can we talk about something else?  
> TAN: Sure, sorry. It’s just -  
> RICHIE: I mean, you can laugh. Like I said, it’s a [bleep]ing joke.
> 
> _Tan doesn’t as much as smile, just keeps his hand on Richie’s arm. Richie’s legs have started bobbing restlessly. His breath is still flat and his shoulders have tensed up. His eyes are darting around the room as if to find a way of escape._
> 
> TAN: If there’s something I can do -  
> RICHIE: Listen, I don’t know why anyone would even want to see me on stage at this point, it wasn’t even my idea. None of this was my [bleep]ing idea.  
> TAN: What wasn’t? The preview?  
> RICHIE: The whole [bleep]ing thing! You guys, the crew, the show, the whole [bleep]ing circus. My manager Ollie somehow got it into his head that he wants to make me relevant again, and I guess this was the best way to do it. And [bleep] me, of course I go ahead and sign, I’m just that much of an attention whore.
> 
> _Tan gapes at Richie._
> 
> TAN: Wait, so it was your _manager_ who put you on the show? I thought your friends -  
> RICHIE: I mean, Bill put it in his head, but - anyways, it’s a long story. Let’s just say my manager can be very persuasive. Persuaded me for [bleep]ing sure.  
> TAN: Wait, are you saying you -  
> RICHIE: Do I look like I asked to be here? I just wanted to be left the [bleep] alone. But apparently my Netflix special won't sell if people think I'm disgusting, so -
> 
> _Tan swallows hard, his eyes suddenly icy._
> 
> TAN: So they _made_ you come on our show?  
> RICHIE: You say it like I was forced. But I signed the [bleep]ing contract, didn’t I?
> 
> _We cut to Tan’s talking head. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head while looking into the camera._
> 
> TAN: I mean.
> 
> _He takes a deep breath._
> 
> TAN: That shed a whole new light on things. And I gotta say - that really got to me, personally. Because, listen -
> 
> _His voice starts to quiver slightly._
> 
> TAN: We don’t coerce people into things, that’s not how this show works. The people we visit, we visit because they genuinely want our help, and to find out that someone either on his side or on ours had bullied him into this, that was - that really hurt.
> 
> _We peek into the showroom, Richie is still sitting on his chair. Outside the window, we see Tan in agitated conversation with someone who's wearing a headset and carrying a tablet. Tan’s talking head._
> 
> TAN: In the moment, all I could do was to deescalate. The most important thing for me was to make sure Richie knew he had a choice in this. I didn’t want him to feel like he had to go on doing something that had been forced on him.
> 
> _In the showroom, Richie is standing up again. He still looks slightly shaken, but the color is returning to his cheeks. Tan is on his phone, gesturing to someone behind the camera to hold on a second. Back to Tan’s talking head._
> 
> TAN: I mean, we just couldn't go on like that. So in the end we agreed with the producers to wrap for the day and halt the production.
> 
> _We pull out and reveal the film set that’s been set up in the department store - extra lighting on tripods outside the window, cables on the floor, production assistants exchanging confused looks, the B-camera operator switching off his camera and taking off his shoulder rig. Tan walks over to Richie, puts his hand on his shoulder and talks to him inaudibly. Cut to the empty Fab Five loft._
> 
> TAN: That was a pretty quiet night in the loft, I can tell you.
> 
> _Talking heads, intercut with footage of the Fab Five meeting each other in the stylish living room, concerned faces all around, backed by somber music._
> 
> ANTONI: Yeah, I just remember Tan coming in with that look on his face and I instantly thought -  
> KARAMO: Oh god, someone has died.  
> BOBBY: I mean, Tan absolutely made the right call there. As soon as he explained, we were a hundred percent behind him. I mean, it was a shock -  
> JONATHAN: - and oh my god, henny, the tension, you cannot believe. I don’t think I slept a wink that night.  
> TAN: I mean, at this point - we thought the week was over. We thought that would be it.
> 
> _Fade to black._

  
  


\---

  
  


“That was, um,” Richie says. They're sitting in the back of Matt's car, going to drop of Richie at the motel before he takes Tan to wherever the Fab Five are staying. The radio is babbling an incessant stream of nonsense. It's weirdly soothing with the way Richie's head is spinning. He's feeling kind of nauseous from the past forty-eight hours, thrown in all sorts of different directions, and now, by the look of it, released into the wild just like that. He is also, he realizes too late, still wearing the clothes from the department store. “Well, uh, thanks, I guess,” he finishes lamely, looking over at Tan in the other back seat.

Right after Jess yelled “Cut!”, Tan had - well, he had taken her down, for lack of a better expression. Before production week, when Mike had briefed Richie on each of the Fab Five and made him learn to match their faces to their names and their professions with the help of printed headshots, Richie had been pretty sure that at least height-wise, Tan would be the easiest one to take in a fight. Witnessing that scene unfold in front of his eyes, Richie has rapidly changed his mind. Jess is arguably scary, yes, but Tan angry is properly terrifying.

With icy professionalism, which Richie chalked down to deep conditioning through British super villains, he had made his point clear, with Jess shrinking in her functional sneakers, promising to call the higher-ups at Netflix first thing in the morning.

“They’re always pulling this shit,” Tan spits, a lot less contained now than he was with a camera pointed at his face. He's looking out of the car window, the dark tint making Derry appear even gloomier than usual. “They made Bobby remodel a church’s community center, even though he swore he’d never set foot in a church again. Not to mention the cops fake-pulling Karamo over.”

“They did _what_?” Richie says.

“It’s a fucking shit show - I mean, yeah, we do our best to leave a positive mark on the people we meet,” Tan says. “But at the end of the day it’s still reality TV, and apparently that’s just fucking exploitative, whether we like it or not.” Tan runs his hands over his face. “It’s a fucking bitch trying to be real in this business.”

Richie laughs dryly. “At least you’re not out there fucking bullying people for money.”

Tan gives him a sidelong glance. “So you talked to Jonathan?”

“Jonathan talked _at_ me, mostly. But yeah. He struck a chord, you can pass that on to him.”

Richie feels his throat tighten dangerously at the memory of it and clears it to distract himself. He can’t lie, he’s had an inkling in the past, but he’s never had anyone outright call him a bully. And fuck, Jonathan's not wrong. Richie remembers when Ollie first put the faggot bit on his table with a grin like a Cheshire cat. What was he supposed to do? Veto it? After he hadn’t vetoed any of the racist stuff? Any of the jokes about nagging girlfriends and wives? How was he supposed to explain to Ollie that this, suddenly, was what was crossing a line? So he had nodded it off and stuck it out, like he stuck out the mild shitstorm it had caused, like he stuck out Jonathan’s criticism, like he was going to stick out this show. What’s he gonna do? Come out on television? Fat fucking chance.

“I just -” Richie starts, feeling like he’s showing a little too much skin, but fuck it, for once there aren’t any cameras around, and he’s going to say what he needs to say. “Sometimes I just wish I wasn’t the fucking asshole I am.” He takes a deep breath. Weirdly, that suddenly feels easier.

Tan just looks at him. “You’re not an asshole, Richie,” he says simply. “You just play one on TV.” Curt and British and no-nonsense, the sanest voice Richie has heard in show business in a long time, and how it ever made him think of movie villains is beyond him right now.

The car pulls into the parking lot in front of the Derry motel and the hum of the engine and the babble of the radio die down.

Tan’s words echo for a moment in the silence between them, and Richie feels like he should probably deny what Tan just said. He knows for sure he would never have gotten up and defended anyone’s integrity the way Tan did just now. And Jonathan, in his killer heels and sequinned skirts, is the bravest fucking person Richie has ever met. Fuck, all of them, who made their otherness not into a weapon, not an armor, but a lifeline. How is Richie, the real Richie, spiky and unlovable and scared shitless half the time, anything _but_ an asshole in comparison to them? He thinks of Eddie on the couch, high and soft, and Mike’s words, _maybe if you were less of a bitch to him every once in a while_ , and wipes his hands over his face with a sigh, dislodging his glasses. He spent half his life convinced it was just a role he's playing, but now he's not so sure anymore. It could be deeply ingrained enough to have become completely inseparable from him.

But then, what if Tan is right, and there is even as much as a sliver of hope for him? Richie laughs quietly, despite himself. He really is that fucking desperate, even the mere suggestion of it already feels like part of an absolution.

“What?” Tan asks, throwing him a look, curious, but not without kindness.

Richie lets himself slump back into his car seat.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just… “ A sigh. “Fucking showbiz, I guess.”

“Fucking showbiz,” Tan agrees without a moment of hesitation.

  
  


\---

  
  


“You had one fucking job,” Ollie yells down the line. Richie can almost feel the sprinkle of his saliva through the receiver. “One fucking job, Trashmouth, which was to sit this shit out and make it work. But apparently you couldn’t even do _that_.”

“It slipped out, okay,” Richie says. The motel phone’s cord is cutting into his finger, leaving it in dark purple segments. Richie unravels it and sticks the finger into his mouth. “I slipped,” he mumbles around it, “I didn’t know they'd stop the whole show -”

“You fucking slipped?!” Ollie echoes. “Really? You fucking _keep_ slipping, Richie! The amount of times you’ve messed up in the past years, you can count yourself lucky you even still have a career. God knows I’m ready to just fucking let you destroy yourself.”

Ollie huffs an exasperated sigh, and Richie can practically see him with his hand on his boyish chin, squeezing the stubbly chub between his fingers, his face so very punchable.

“I’m out of options here, Tozier,” Ollie says. “And this was a good one. This could’ve turned it around for us.”

Richie runs his free hand over his face, pinching the back of his nose under his glasses. _Us_ , Richie thinks. The amount of times Ollie has promised to turn it around, and then just proceeded to beat their shared dead horse on in the same hopeless direction.

“Fuck, Ollie, they were actually nice,” Richie snaps, shaking out his still throbbing finger. “The gays, I mean. And like, yes, I’m pretty good at lying to the assholes in my audience, but I don’t want to lie to _them_ anymore. They’re only trying to help.” He takes a deep breath. “I'm -” he hesitates for a split-second, and it feels like he's jumping the cliff into the fucking quarry when he proceeds - “fuck, Ollie, between this and the ghostwriters, I'm just lying all the fucking time, I’m so tired of it. Like, who am I even, honestly? Do you know? Because I sure as fuck don’t.”

On the other end of the line, Richie hears Ollie sigh a pained sigh.

“Really, Richie? The Who-Am-I routine? _Now?_ God, you’re such a fucking cliché.”

“Well, if I am, maybe you should hire better writers,” Richie mumbles under his breath.

For a moment, it’s quiet on Ollie’s side. Richie pictures him rolling his eyes. Then Ollie takes a deep breath, as if he was ready to just wash his hands of this fucking shit show.

“You know what? Fuck your midlife crisis,” Ollie says. “And fuck you, Trashmouth, I've worked with you for twelve years and god knows this is the first time you're getting picky about what you put in your mouth.” He cackles joylessly. “Your timing is off the fucking charts, dude. Fuck, maybe you _should_ stick with the homos. You might learn a thing or two about yourself from them.”

Very rarely, when the universe coincides and the moon and the stars align, Richie gets those fits of clarity in which the words bypass his muddled, panicked brain completely and fall straight out of his mouth, fuck the consequences, and this, blessed, is one of those moments.

“You know what, Ollie?” Richie says, surprising himself with how calm he sounds. “Fuck you. That’s it, I'm done. You’re fired.”

“Richie, what the fuck -”

“You’re fucking fired, Ollie. Have a nice life,” Richie repeats, his voice jumping an octave, and then he slams the receiver onto the cradle before Ollie can worm his way through there with arguments. Afterwards Richie sits down heavily on his motel bed and spreads his fingers in front of his body to get the shaking out of them, his right forefinger still a mismatched candy cane pattern. The phone rings again and Richie picks up, only to disconnect the call and leave the receiver belly-up next to the cradle. He tries breathing, which sort of works.

He kind of wants to laugh. He kind of wants to call Mike’s to see if the Losers are there. He kind of wants to see what Eddie thinks of his new haircut and stolen clothes, and the fact that he just fired his manager. But then he just sits there, his breath going so heavy it begins to turn into sobs. He balls his hands to fists and when he spreads his fingers again, they’re steady.

Ollie's words have already subsided into the background hum of his noisy brain, and Richie begins to feel the weight that has been lifted off his shoulders. The fucking night terrors - he’s had more about Ollie waltzing into Derry and dragging him, kicking and screaming, back onto a stage somewhere, than he’s had about any of the shit he’s been through with the Losers. Fuck, this is probably the kind of joke he’d write if he wrote his own jokes, and the sheer absurdity of it makes him giggle. He feels sort of formless, sort of liquid, sort of naked without Ollie’s ever-watchful presence looming over him. It gets real fucking scary real fucking fast, thinking about it for too long.

Richie fishes the call sheet from his back pocket, ink faded where he has folded it, and dials the number next to Tan’s name.

  
  


\---

  
  


> _We fade up from black, the Fab Five’s loft, darkness outside, perfect indirect lighting in the stylishly furnished living room. Karamo and Bobby are fixing drinks in the kitchen, Tan, Antoni and Jonathan are lounging on the couch, Tan impeccably dressed, Antoni in sweatpants, Jonathan wearing a velvety lilac bathrobe. Suddenly, Tan’s phone on the coffee table lights up and rings._
> 
> TAN: Oh my god, it’s Richie.  
> JONATHAN: Oh my god, Tanny!  
> ANTONI: Guys! it’s Richie!
> 
> _Bobby and Karamo come hurrying from the kitchen._
> 
> KARAMO: Oh my god, pick up, Tan, what are you waiting for?
> 
> _Tan answers the call, pressing the phone to his ear._
> 
> TAN: Tan France?
> 
> _He listens intently for a moment, the rest of the Fab Five huddling close._
> 
> TAN: Is - is someone there with you right now?  
> ANTONI: Jesus Christ, Tan, put him on speaker!  
> TAN (into the phone): Do you mind if I put you on speaker? The boys are here with me -
> 
> _Tan presses a button on his touch screen, and Richie’s voice starts ringing through the living room._
> 
> RICHIE (O.S.): - anyways, if my manager calls, ignore him, I just fired him. I’m just calling to say - I wanna do this. Like, don’t cancel the production, I’m in.
> 
> _The Fab Five look delighted. Jonathan lets go of a high-pitched squeal._
> 
> JONATHAN: Oh my god, honey, I’m so proud of you!  
> BOBBY: That’s great to hear, Richie!  
> KARAMO: Hell yeah!  
> RICHIE (O.S.): So, um… is this cool? Are we cool?  
> TAN: Listen, as long as you’re cool with it, we’re here for you. Aren’t we, boys?  
> KARAMO: We are _so_ here for you, Richie. You call the shots.  
> TAN: Also, about the show on Friday -
> 
> _There’s a brief silence on Richie’s end of the line._
> 
> RICHIE (O.S.): No. No, that’s alright. I - I kinda have an idea.
> 
> _Upbeat music picks up, as the Fab Five exchange excited looks over Tan’s phone. We fade over white to reveal a TITLE CARD:_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> DAY 3: KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _We join Antoni and Richie in the small, industrial kitchen of a local restaurant. Both are wearing aprons, a folded tea towel each thrown over their shoulders. On the counter in front of them, Antoni has prepared a heap of produce and ingredients, two cutting boards and a selection of kitchen knives._
> 
> ANTONI: So, just so I’m getting this right, you’re doing the show tomorrow -  
> RICHIE: Fully committed, yes.  
> ANTONI: - but you’re not doing the show that was originally written for you?  
> RICHIE: Nope, I am gonna come up with something different. Within the next, uh, thirty-six hours. So, um. We’ll see how that goes.  
> ANTONI: Exciting!
> 
> _Richie notices the lined up kitchen knives in front of him._
> 
> RICHIE: Wait, is this gonna be another trust exercise?  
> ANTONI: What?
> 
> _Richie points at his own chin, where, as predicted by Jonathan, the stubble is already growing back in._
> 
> RICHIE: Between you and Jonathan, I’m beginning to wonder if you guys are just really into knife play.
> 
> _Antoni’s eyes widen with horrified realization._
> 
> ANTONI: Shit, I should have checked. Are you okay with knives? I mean, if is this triggering you at all -  
> RICHIE: No, dude, chill. It’s cool, this is just me trying to be funny -  
> ANTONI: I just meant because you said your friend got stabbed -  
> RICHIE: Man, if I got extra trauma every time one of my friends got stabbed, I wouldn’t be getting anywhere with my life. (beat) Which, I guess, fair. Case in point. But I am still fully able to cut a vegetable.
> 
> _Antoni looks immensely relieved._
> 
> ANTONI: So do you have any idea why I brought you here?  
> RICHIE: Because this is the only kitchen in Derry that passes the health inspection?  
> ANTONI: No, I meant what we’re making today. _  
> _RICHIE: Um… I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it’s not instant noodles.  
>  ANTONI: That’s right! _Not_ instant noodles. I was thinking, what with you moving into the house and having access to an actual kitchen - I’m going to teach you a meal that’s a little more _communal_ than instant noodles.
> 
> _Antoni fishes a cardboard package from the pile on the counter and holds it out to Richie._
> 
> ANTONI: Do you know what this is?
> 
> _Richie takes the pack of flat, square lasagna pasta out of Antoni’s hands._
> 
> RICHIE: We’re making lasagna?!  
> ANTONI: Veggie lasagna. Surprisingly easy to make, super impressive to serve, a real crowd-pleaser.  
> RICHIE: Man, you know how I love to please a crowd.  
> ANTONI: Right?! You can make this for your friends, for a potluck, and it’s something really nice just for two, for a date night...
> 
> _Richie looks like he might interject._
> 
> ANTONI: I’m gonna stop you right there. We’re not getting pessimistic about your romantic prospects right now. You’re hot.
> 
> _He tosses Richie an onion._
> 
> ANTONI: Now cut this.  
> RICHIE: Compliments and onions, are you trying to get me to cry for the camera? Sorry to disappoint, but I am actually dead inside.
> 
> _Richie actually looks quite pleased with himself. Antoni laughs. Richie clumsily cuts the onion, while Antoni expertly dices tomatoes, carrots and squash. Then Antoni slides the onion off the cutting board into a hot frying pan._
> 
> ANTONI: Bit of olive oil, bit of garlic, you just cook them until glassy, like so - and then you add your other veggies one by one.
> 
> _Richie adds the carrots first, then the squash and tomatoes. Antoni gives the vegetables a good stir before he hands the spatula to Richie and shows him how to do it himself._ _Antoni inspects the contents of Richie’s pan._
> 
> ANTONI: This is done, now just a little seasoning -
> 
> _Antoni adds a couple of pinches of sweet pepper, oregano, and salt._
> 
> ANTONI: - and we put this aside while we move on to the next sauce!
> 
> _Antoni puts another pot on the stove and melts a couple of sticks of butter in it._
> 
> ANTONI: This is white sauce. If you wanna get fancy, we can call it béchamel. That’s my favorite part, actually. Tastes so [bleep]ing good, and it’s the simplest thing on earth. You just plop some of this flour in here, I usually do one table spoon per serving -
> 
> _He mixes flour into the molten butter to make a yellow-ish crumble at the bottom of his pot._
> 
> ANTONI: Just let it sweat there a little, for flavor, and then we’ll add some milk like so -
> 
> _He adds milk from a jug, mixing the crumble into a smooth, white texture, waits until it bubbles up before he adds some more milk. He dips his finger in and tastes it._
> 
> ANTONI: God, yes. Pure fat and gluten, can’t go wrong with that.
> 
> _Richie tries as well._
> 
> RICHIE: Dude, that’s _good_.  
> ANTONI: Right?! Now we just have to assemble this puppy.
> 
> _We watch as Antoni and Richie alternate layers of white sauce, vegetable mix and dry lasagna pasta into a casserole dish._
> 
> ANTONI: Here’s my secret lasagna hack: Lots of recipes tell you to precook your pasta, but actually, with that amount of moisture in the sauces, that’ll only make it soggy. If you put your pasta in there raw and let the moisture do all the work, you’ll end up with a nice al dente pasta layer with a bit of bite to it.
> 
> _They finish it off with a thick layer of grated cheese before Antoni puts the dish into the oven._
> 
> ANTONI: That’s bye for now, baby, you be good while your daddies talk for a minute, okay?
> 
> _Richie snorts. Antoni checks his watch._
> 
> ANTONI: I’d say about - maybe twenty to thirty minutes? We’ll check on her every once in a while.
> 
> _He takes off his apron._
> 
> ANTONI: So, Richie, how are we feeling about having an actual bun in the oven? It’s nice, right?
> 
> _Richie laughs. He’s standing with his backside leaned to the counter, his apron dusted with flour and his cheeks a little flushed from the heat of the oven. His arms are still crossed in front of his chest, but he looks more relaxed than he has all week._
> 
> RICHIE: I mean, I was a latchkey kid, so all I got was either microwave dinners, or sometimes I got to eat at my friend Stan’s, who - I mean, his mom was an amazing cook. Just a whole different level. But she _ruled_ that kitchen, we weren’t even allowed to touch a spoon.  
> ANTONI: Nice to hear you got the odd home cooked meal though.
> 
> _Richie nods._
> 
> RICHIE: I mean, my folks, they weren’t bad by any standard. They weren’t abusive shitheads like Bev’s dad or Eddie’s mom, and they weren’t dead like Mike’s, and they weren’t slowly going insane like Bill’s -
> 
> _He hesitates for a moment. Antoni turns towards him, his stance open, listening. Richie digs his fingers into his biceps and continues, a little more serious now, his voice a little quieter._
> 
> RICHIE: Bill - his little brother went missing when we were twelve, thirteen, around that time. You know, when - when things started happening a lot. Murders, missing persons, all that. And that was just - that just kicked loose a whole avalanche of shit.  
> ANTONI: Oof, I can imagine.  
> RICHIE: No offense, man, but you really can’t.
> 
> _Richie shakes his head, momentarily lost in thought before he catches himself._
> 
> RICHIE: You wanna hear a funny story about show business?  
> ANTONI: Uh, sure. Hit me!  
> RICHIE: People keep asking me if I was involved in the murders.  
> ANTONI: Wait, what?!  
> RICHIE: It’s supposed to be a joke, like, didn’t you grow up in Derry in the eighties? And didn’t you disappear from the map last year? Has anyone ever seen the Derry Ripper and Richie Trashmouth in the same room? It’s all over the internet.  
> ANTONI: Holy shit, that’s _vile._
> 
> _Richie shrugs._
> 
> RICHIE: I guess it sort of makes sense - I don’t know, I think it’s just my vibe. Like, untrustworthy energy. Nobody ever makes the connection to my friend Bill, who was also here both times and writes books in which children are literally getting murdered in incredibly specific ways. But then, he has graying temples like some sort of romcom protagonist, whereas Ihave serial killer eyebrows, apparently.  
> ANTONI: Oh come on, you don’t have serial killer eyebrows. You just have Resting Kubrick Stare.  
> RICHIE: I have a what now?  
> ANTONI: It’s like Resting Bitch Face, but, like, creepy. Look, I have the same thing. I get Christian Bale in American Psycho all the time.
> 
> _Antoni lowers his chin to his chest and peers up at Richie through his eyebrows with a dead-eyed smile on his face._
> 
> ANTONI: See? I used to be super self-conscious about it, it kinda freaks people out. But then, who cares! It’s just your face!
> 
> _Richie laughs._
> 
> RICHIE: Dude, I would give ten years of my life to have your face. You just threw a tea towel over your shoulder and you instantly looked like the official tea towel brand ambassador. Honestly, you’re like a walking talking product placement.  
> ANTONI: Aw, come on -  
> RICHIE: Like, with me, it’s not that I blame anyone, I’ve been pretty openly disgusting for the past twelve years of my career. It’s the whole asshole brand, and I mean, fair, it made me a shitload of money, it’s just, I -
> 
> _He swallows._
> 
> RICHIE: It - it gets really [bleep]ing lonely really [bleep]ing fast.
> 
> _Richie evades Antoni’s eyes, who crosses the distance between them and puts his hand on Richie’s arm._
> 
> ANTONI: Hey, you’ve got your friends, right? The ones who nominated you?  
> RICHIE: Yeah, I mean. Jury’s still out on whether they actually like me.  
> ANTONI: Come on, they clearly care about you!
> 
> _Richie laughs dryly._
> 
> RICHIE: Yeah, but we both know that’s not the same thing.  
> ANTONI: Listen, they came out here for _you_ this week, and I happen to know for a fact that they want to spend time with you.  
> RICHIE: I mean, I appreciate the sentiment, but how would you even know that -  
> ANTONI: Why did you think we were making a lasagna that feeds ten people?
> 
> _Richie’s eyes narrow._
> 
> RICHIE: Wait, are you saying -  
> ANTONI: Just - follow me -
> 
> _We cut to Antoni’s smugly smiling talking head._
> 
> ANTONI: At this point, I’m not gonna lie, I’m basically Oprah. White, male, gay Oprah. I mean, let’s be real, that timing? I swear it wasn’t even scripted. It was just pure talent on my part.
> 
> _Antoni puts his hands on Richie’s shoulders and leads him out of the kitchen and into the restaurant, where a long table is set up for nine. Richie looks back at Antoni with a questioning look on his face, when -_
> 
> BEVERLY: Richie [bleep]ing Tozier, you’ve got to be _joking_. How are you _hot_ now?
> 
> _Richie’s face falls. He turns to where Beverly is standing, her hands clasped in front of her face, Bill and Ben next to her, Mike and Eddie following them._
> 
> RICHIE: What the [bleep], you guys - _  
> _MIKE: Surprise!
> 
> _Beverly runs towards Richie and throws her arms around his neck. Bill and Ben follow suit, with Bill taking Richie’s face in both hands as soon as Beverly has let him go._
> 
> BILL: I’m just saying, you’re not allowed to be m-mad at me for setting this up anymore. Not looking like that.  
> BEN: You clean up _nice_ , Tozier.
> 
> _Ben ruffles Richie’s hair. Richie is slowly finding his tongue again._
> 
> RICHIE: You say that like it surprises you, Hanscom.
> 
> _The only one who is still keeping his distance is Eddie, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his jaw tight. Over their friends’ heads, Richie catches his eye and makes a snipping gesture with his fingers near his head, mouthing:_ Debbie Coltrane! _Eddie rolls his eyes._
> 
> _Suddenly, the restaurant’s door flies open._
> 
> KARAMO: Is this the Trashmouth lunch party?  
> JONATHAN: We heard there was lasagna?
> 
> _Karamo and Jonathan waltz in through the front door at the exact same moment that Antoni rolls the finished lasagna into the room on a serving trolley._
> 
> ANTONI: Perfect, you’re here! You don’t mind a couple more people, Richie, do you?
> 
> _Richie shakes his head. He looks completely overwhelmed, but the smile on his face is genuine. Karamo and Jonathan begin to make their round through Richie’s friends. Karamo hugs Ben, Beverly and Mike, while Jonathan heads straight for Bill._
> 
> JONATHAN: Don’t say it, don’t say it! William [bleep]ing Denbrough! I’m, like, so in love with your show, I literally couldn’t wait to meet you. Like, no offense, Richie, but he’s literally the reason I’m here today.  
> RICHIE: None taken.
> 
> _Bill holds out his hand for Jonathan to shake._
> 
> BILL: Please, call me Bill.  
> JONATHAN: Oh honey, you bet I will. Where there’s a Bill, there’s a bae.
> 
> _While Bill patiently allows Jonathan to ambush him with questions, Karamo moves on to Eddie._
> 
> KARAMO: And you are?  
> EDDIE: Edward Kaspbrak. Richie and I went to school together -  
> KARAMO: Oh hey, nice to meet you!
> 
> _Karamo goes in for the hug when Richie cuts in._
> 
> RICHIE: Karamo, wait, no hugs for him. He’s recovering from an injury.  
> EDDIE: Are you kidding me right now? I’m not a [bleep]ing invalid.
> 
> _Karamo’s eyes catch on the scar on Eddie’s face, and his mouth falls open._
> 
> KARAMO: Ohh, what? You’re _Eddie_! With the -
> 
> _He points at his own scar-less cheek, a look of gleeful horror on his face._
> 
> KARAMO: I’m so sorry, man, I thought Richie was just messing with us, but you actually got stabbed in the -  
> EDDIE: Great, Richie, what else did you tell them about me?  
> RICHIE: Only how out of all of my friends you are the shortest _and_ the cutest.  
> ANTONI (O.S.): Lunch is served, if anyone’s hungry!
> 
> _At the long, beautifully set up table, everybody is taking their seats behind nine plates full of steaming hot veggie lasagna. Still squabbling, Eddie and Richie squeeze onto the last two free chairs._
> 
> ANTONI: Please, dig in! It’s best when it’s hot!
> 
> _When Eddie lifts his fork, Richie leans over to him, lowering his voice to a whisper._
> 
> RICHIE: Just so you know, I cooked that. I thought you might want to factor in the risk of, I don’t know, food poisoning -  
> EDDIE: You can’t tell me what to eat, asshole.
> 
> _The camera catches Karamo watching them attentively, just before we cut to a wide shot of everybody - including Eddie - digging into their full plates._
> 
> BEVERLY: Oh my god, Richie, that is so good.  
> BEN: Honestly, Bill, that’s it. You’re officially no longer the only one of us who can cook a full meal.
> 
> _Bill says something in response, but the words of it are lost in the chatter around the table. Cut to the Fab Five’s talking heads. Antoni sighs deeply, his hands on his chest._
> 
> ANTONI: His friends are literally the nicest people, it gives me such a warm, fuzzy feeling just to think about it. I know how hard it can be to appreciate just how loved you are, especially when you’re in a place where you can’t feel that love for yourself, but man - they really love him. It’s palpable.
> 
> _While he speaks, we observe the group around the dinner table, Beverly losing it over an animated impression Richie is pulling across from her, Ben putting his hand on her thigh, smiling, Mike and Bill choking on their lasagna with laughter, even Eddie, to Richie’s left, hiding a smile behind his napkin. Karamo asks something, sending all six of them into another fit of laughter. Jonathan and Antoni watch, wide-eyed, smiling._
> 
> JONATHAN: It’s just, like, all about the unconditional love. Like, who cares whose vagina you popped out of - at the end of the day that’s just, that’s just genetics, honey. It’s really about where you can find that love, that acceptance. And when you do, _that’s_ your family.
> 
> _We focus on Richie, the fork halfway to his mouth, laughing about something Bill said across the table. But still, even now, there’s a hint of restraint about him, like what he’s seeing is making him happy and sad in equal measures._
> 
> KARAMO: I’m not sure Richie can see it, though. It’s so tricky, that sort of thing. That’s my mission for this afternoon. To make him see how much he's loved.

  
  


\---

  
  


The first drag of smoke goes straight to Richie’s prickling fingers. A joint would be nicer, but Matt the driver still insists he’s never seen a weed in his life, the fucking liar. Jess has allotted an hour of lunch for the crew, and when someone had yelled “Cut!” and everybody had gotten up, and Bev had said, “Hey, anyone wanna get coffee?” and the rest of the Losers had huddled around her, Eddie abandoning his seat at Richie’s side without a second of hesitation, and Karamo had already been waving at Richie across the table to talk about the afternoon - long story short, Richie had padded his jeans for his flattened pack of cigarettes in the universally accepted silent gesture for “I need a smoke”, and fled through the kitchen, and then out back to the dumpsters sitting in their little concrete yard.

The sun is coming out, throwing a lazy strip of almost warm light on Richie’s face, and he takes a deep breath, feeling like he just swam the length of a pool without once coming up for air. Tentatively, he begins to take inventory of his feelings. His belly still hurts from laughing, and he feels the usual comforting warmth of spending time with the other Losers. Curiously, the after-show jitters are staying away for the moment. Maybe they are just waiting their turn until he’s actually done for the day. But Richie still feels a wave of exhaustion descend that has nothing to do with performing, and a lot to do with not-performing while there’s a camera pointed at his face, which is, as it turns out, just as much of a chore.

“You know those will kill you, right?”

The voice gives Richie a jolt like a stab to his gut. Which, he realizes, is perhaps not the best image to describe that particular feeling, given the person attached to it. Eddie is standing in the door frame leading back into the restaurant, stiffly holding the door open with one hand.

“That’s rich, coming from our newly minted stoner over there,” Richie says around his cigarette.

“Funny,” Eddie deadpans, and gingerly steps out onto the plastic-strewn ground between the dumpsters, letting the door fall shut behind him. Richie can feel his tenseness like a vibration in the air. His brows are already furrowed in disapproval. _Maybe if you were less of a bitch to him every once in a while_ , Richie thinks.

“Chill,” he tries, sounding harsher than he intended, and takes another drag from his cigarette. “I’m joking.”

Eddie gives him a sidelong glance. “You’re trying.”

Richie huffs a laugh and watches the glimmering bits of ash from his cigarette tumble to the ground in front of his feet. He wishes he had his boots already, the ones Tan picked out for him. For the first time in his life, his holey, beat-up sneakers are starting to feel old.

“The others are going for coffee,” Eddie says.

“Yeah,” Richie says, “Bev said.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Somehow it seems statement enough, Richie thinks, that with a whole film crew, a handful of celebrities and his five only friends at his disposal, he’s still hiding out between the dumpsters by himself. But then, he realizes, so is Eddie.

“Heard you fired your -” Eddie starts at the exact same second that Richie says, “So how long are you staying in Derry?”

Eddie stops. “You go first.”

“Nah,” Richie says, “you go first.” They stare at each other, silently battling it out for a moment before Richie relents. “I just wanted to know how long you’re staying.”

“Sunday,” Eddie says. “I have to be at the clinic for an MRT on Monday.”

“Right,” Richie says. It still seems unreal how Eddie is even standing there, his face now tilted towards the pale sunlight, his jaw not quite as tense anymore. All year, when they didn’t see each other, Richie has tried his best not to picture what Eddie would look like, has imagined him thin, fading, pale and unhappy. He doesn’t look pale now, but he does he look happy? Richie can’t quite tell.

“Are you healing okay?” Richie asks. It’s not exactly what he wants to know, but it’s close enough.

Eddie’s jaw tenses up immediately. “Yeah, I’m healing okay,” he says, sharp. “What the hell are you getting at?”

“Nothing,” Richie says, dropping his shoulders, trying hard not to pick up on Eddie’s tone. It’s so tempting to just bitch right back the way they usually do, just another way of saying, _Hey Eds, look at us! We’re the same!_ “I just -” Richie takes the leap. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”

Eddie scrunches up his nose and gives Richie a taxing look, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No, I’m not fucking with you,” Richie sighs, flipping the butt of his cigarette into a puddle and extinguishing it with his heel. “I’m just trying to be nice. Or, I don’t know. Nic _er_.”

“Well, it’s freaking me out,” Eddie says, his voice pressed.

Richie pointedly keeps his eyes on the tips of his ratty sneakers. He scoffs. “I’ll go back to being a bitch in a second, then.”

“Thanks,” Eddie says. When Richie does look up, he finds Eddie’s face softer than he expected. “It’s weird, man, it makes you sound like you have cancer or something.”

“Man, you really know how to get a guy out of his shell,” Richie says, but he wants to die a little because Eddie actually looks relieved. There’s a misshapen bundle in Richie’s chest, he pictures it about the size and shape and smell of a ratty gym bag, where he has put all the feelings he has felt for Eddie in the past twenty-eight years, and it’s moments like this where he has to keep his mouth shut tight, or else he will vomit the whole thing up between them, all over Eddie’s immaculate shoes, and they both know how much Eddie hates a mess.

“So you fired your manager,” Eddie says, giving Richie a scrutinizing look.

Richie nods. It’s still hard to hold down a feeling about it, equal parts giddiness and paralyzing terror.

“That sounds like a stupid fucking idea,” Eddie says.

Richie laughs, surprised. “Yeah. It probably is.”

“Anyways,” Eddie says, his eyes strictly on about the height of Richie’s knees, “good for you, I guess.”

“We’ll see,” Richie says, fully realizing that this is as much of a compliment as he’ll ever get from Eddie. Fuck, they’re bad at this.

“Meant to give you something,” Eddie says abruptly. He sticks his fingers into the perfectly ironed breast pocket of his polo shirt, and when he pulls them out again, there’s a lean, elegant, perfectly rolled joint between them that Eddie holds out to him.

“Eds -” Richie says, choking on the gym bag in his throat.

“I’ll never smoke all of it anyways,” Eddie says, pulling his shoulders up. “And you look like you need a break, so -”

“That’s - that’s sweet,” Richie rasps, his mouth dry. He could fucking cry. He blames the exhaustion, any maybe the gays a little, too. Richie picks the joint from Eddie’s fingers, careful not to touch skin, and cautiously puts it into the breast pocket of his own shirt. “I’ll save it,” he says, patting the spot just over his heart. He looks at Eddie, who looks vaguely pleased, and Richie suddenly feels brave, like could tell Eddie just a little of that mess inside him now, not the whole monstrous truth, just a slice of it that won’t hurt so bad or break anything.

“Eddie, I -” he starts, not really knowing which part of it is going to come out, when he’s interrupted by a voice from inside.

“Richie? Are you there?” Karamo pops his head through the back door, and Eddie, even though he’s already standing a good couple of feet away from Richie, takes a deliberate step back.

“Oh, there you are, Richie,” Karamo says. “We’re driving over to the next set, are you coming?”

Karamo has the kindest face, but he’s definitely the scariest of them, because behind his buddy demeanor he hides the surefire capability of just looking right past Richie’s bullshit. It feels like talking to a guy with x-ray vision, but for feelings. And right now he’s looking at Eddie a little too intently.

“Uh, yeah,” Richie says. “Sure, I’ll be right out.”

“Cool! See you in five!” Karamo retreats through the restaurant and leaves the door wide open behind him.

“Looks like I gotta go,” Richie says pointlessly, turning back to Eddie and gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Yeah,” Eddie echoes. “Looks like it.”

There’s a moment there that’s just the shape and width of the confession that’s sitting at the back of Richie’s throat, but even if he could say it now, even if he could get the words out, the conversation that would inevitably follow would by far exceed the five minutes Karamo has allotted. They’d take weeks to get back from that, if not months. And then there’s the other scenario, in which Eddie won’t talk to him anymore at all, and Richie couldn’t even blame him. So Richie just takes a deep gulp of air instead and leaves it.

  
  


\---

  
  


> _SCENE TRANSITION: Karamo and Antoni dancing in black and white. Then:_
> 
> _Karamo and Richie are walking down Derry Main Street, Karamo one step ahead of Richie._
> 
> KARAMO: So here’s the thing, Richie. I’m getting a lot of restlessness from you, but on the other hand, you all feel super deeply connected to this town. What is it about this place?  
> RICHIE: Man, are you sure you want to go there?  
> KARAMO: Uh, you know how I love an unfinished business. Hit me, Richie. I want to find out how you relate to this place.
> 
> _Richie stiffens a little next to Karamo, but keeps the pace as Karamo continues barreling down Main Street._
> 
> RICHIE: So, like, a walking tour - ?  
> KARAMO: I had something a little more fun in mind.
> 
> _They turn the corner to a small parking lot, where the production team has set up two bicycles for them. With their low seats, thick tires and arched frames, they look more like Harleys than regular bikes, though._
> 
> KARAMO: Ta-daah!  
> RICHIE: Wow, those are _nice_!  
> KARAMO: A little birdie told me you used to cruise around town a lot when you were a kid. I thought this was the perfect way for me to see this town through your eyes. Wanna give them a spin?
> 
> _Karamo gets onto his bike. The seat’s a little too low for his height, making him fold his legs at an awkward angle. Richie has a similar problem with his own bike, his knees sticking out sideways. Karamo and Richie drive a couple of wobbly turns around each other on the parking lot, slowly finding their balance. Richie finds his a little faster than Karamo does._
> 
> RICHIE: You really don’t unlearn that, huh?  
> KARAMO: I, uh - I guess you don’t -
> 
> _Karamo wobbles his way to the exit of the parking lot._
> 
> KARAMO: Wanna go?  
> RICHIE: Way ahead of you, buddy.
> 
> _Richie sways off the parking lot onto the street, Karamo pumping his pedals to follow suit._
> 
> KARAMO (out of breath): I’m - beginning - to - regret this -
> 
> _Richie and Karamo zoom down Main Street, past Debbie Coltrane’s hair salon, the closed up arcade and the public green with the lumber jack statue. While driving, Richie inaudibly points out sights to Karamo. We follow Richie and Karamo onto quieter streets, a residential area, where Richie stops briefly in front of the ruin of an abandoned house. Finally, they hobble down a gravel path that ends at a wooden bridge over a creek. Karamo stops._
> 
> KARAMO: I’m calling a time-out, I need to catch my breath!
> 
> _Richie breaks and looks back at Karamo, both feet planted on the ground, the bike between his knees._
> 
> RICHIE: What, here?  
> KARAMO: Why not?
> 
> _Richie shrugs, his mouth tensing slightly._
> 
> _Richie’s and Karamo’s bike are peacefully leaning against the railing of the bridge. The top board of it is riddled with initials, hearts, names carved into the soft wood, faded and aged with time. A little further along, Richie and Karamo sit perched on the edge of the railing. Karamo passes a water bottle on to Richie, of which Richie takes a deep swing. Karamo closes his eyes and listens to the birdsong around, the soft whisper of the trees, the murmur of the creek below._
> 
> KARAMO: Ahh, this is nice.
> 
> _Richie passes the bottle back to him and crosses his arms in front of his chest, digging the fingers of his right hand into his left biceps._
> 
> KARAMO: You don’t think it’s nice?  
> RICHIE: I never said it isn’t nice.  
> KARAMO: Has anyone ever told you you sit like this when you’re uncomfortable?
> 
> _Karamo mimics Richie’s posture, digging his own fingers into his biceps._
> 
> KARAMO: I mean, ouch. You look tense.
> 
> _Richie self-consciously uncrosses his arms and looks out into the woods._
> 
> KARAMO: I’m trying to figure out what it is that’s keeping you here. I don’t mean to push, but between the criminal record in this town, and the story you told the other day about your friend Eddie - I’m guessing you and your friends must have fought your fair share of demons here.
> 
> _Richie barks a surprised laugh._
> 
> RICHIE: You could say that.
> 
> _Karamo gives him a sidelong glance and remains professionally silent._
> 
> RICHIE: I mean, [bleep], this town has been a literal nightmare. But I don’t know. I don’t -
> 
> _He shrugs._
> 
> RICHIE: It’s not like it’s better anywhere else. I mean, have you _been_ to LA? It’s a [bleep]ing shit show.  
> KARAMO: So that’s why the motel? Not really staying, but not really leaving, either?  
> RICHIE: Man, you’re good at this shit, you should do this professionally.
> 
> _Karamo laughs. Richie slowly shakes his head._
> 
> RICHIE: It [bleep]ing sucks, man. This is where all the best stuff happened, but it’s also where all the worst stuff happened, and I don’t know what the [bleep] to do with that. I can’t just hand over the good stuff, right? That would make me even more of a coward.  
> KARAMO: You’re not a coward. You’re still here, you’re getting help. That’s the bravest thing anyone can do. You gotta cut yourself some slack.
> 
> _Richie runs his hands over his face, dislodging his glasses._
> 
> RICHIE: Man, I don’t know. It's not just this [bleep]ing place, it's – I think it's more than that.
> 
> _They’re silent for a moment, Karamo listening attentively. Eventually Richie takes a deep breath._
> 
> RICHIE: I keep thinking about what I’m going to do for the show tomorrow, and I just - I don’t think I’m funny anymore. Like, the asshole act - people laughed, but was that ever funny? Or was that just uncomfortable? I mean, what’s in my head, it’s [bleep]ing dark, man. I don’t know if people will think that’s funny. I don’t even know what’s actually funny anymore, and [bleep], just thinking about that stage - _  
> _KARAMO: Tan tells me you get pretty bad stage fright.  
>  RICHIE: It’s [bleep]ing crippling, man. And that was back when I had a script to follow.  
> KARAMO: What is it that scares you so much?
> 
> _Richie shrugs._
> 
> RICHIE: I don’t know.
> 
> _He thinks about it for a moment._
> 
> RICHIE: Blanking, maybe? That's ironic. (beat) I mean, I’ll try for you guys. But I’m pretty sure it’s going to be shit.  
> KARAMO: When was the last time you performed your own stuff?
> 
> _Richie gives a small, bitter laugh._
> 
> RICHIE: Middle school lunch table. [bleep], I can’t believe I peaked at fourteen.
> 
> _Karamo gently shakes his head._
> 
> KARAMO: Here’s the thing, Richie: The past's the past. None of us can go back to that. The best thing you can do is look at the things you have now and build from that. It’s scary, I know, but try to look at it as something liberating. You don’t have to chase that fourteen year old kid anymore.  
> RICHIE: Jesus, that’s my career ruined in a soundbite.
> 
> _Karamo laughs._
> 
> KARAMO: See, that’s what I’m talking about. You still got it! Just do what makes you and your friends laugh. They clearly love your stuff.  
> RICHIE: _Some_ of them love _some_ of my stuff.  
> KARAMO: Okay, let me stop you right there. A little modesty’s one thing - but lunch today? You saw them, they were in tears!
> 
> _Now it’s Richie’s turn to shake his head._
> 
> RICHIE: See, I’m that [bleep]ing messed up, I always think they’re faking it. Like, they’re so _nice_. They’re on camera. They don’t want to embarrass me.  
> KARAMO: Dude, listen to me. I’ve been in reality TV for my entire career, I know a faker when I see one, and there was only one faker around that table, and that was Eddie, and he was trying his best to pretend like he hated your jokes, while he was - and I swear - dying inside. So yeah, they love you. All of them.
> 
> _Richie looks at Karamo, dumbstruck. He swallows._
> 
> RICHIE: Really?
> 
> _Karamo nods with emphasis._
> 
> KARAMO: Really. I will play back the footage for you if that’s what it takes.  
> RICHIE: Huh.  
> KARAMO: Is that so surprising to you?  
> RICHIE: Uh. I guess part of it is.
> 
> _Richie still seems occupied with that thought when Karamo puts his hand on his arm._
> 
> KARAMO: Hey. Tomorrow night, just do you.  
> RICHIE: That’s easy for you to say. I have a public reputation to keep.
> 
> _Karamo looks at him incredulously._
> 
> KARAMO: Are you trying to tell me we went through all this trouble – you firing your manager, me biking all the way out here - and you still want to keep that sad-ass stage persona of yours? Come _on_. We’re not doing that. We’re taking out the Trashmouth.
> 
> _Karamo gets up from the banister and turns towards the stream._
> 
> KARAMO: Come on, Richie, I won’t stand for this. Help me do my job here.
> 
> _Karamo pats Richie’s arm and motions for him to join him at the banister. Richie hesitatingly slides off the edge and steps next to Karamo, his hands on the railing._
> 
> KARAMO: Let’s say it together. One, two, three… [BLEEP] OFF, TRASHMOUTH!
> 
> _Richie laughs, surprised._
> 
> KARAMO: Come on, trust me, I’m a therapist. Here we go. One, two -  
> RICHIE: [BLEEP] OFF, TRASHMOUTH!  
> KARAMO: Hell yeah!
> 
> _Karamo puts his hand on Richie’s shoulder._
> 
> KARAMO: How does that feel?
> 
> _Richie is a little out of breath._
> 
> RICHIE: Dude, don’t tell anyone I said that, but that shit is cathartic.  
> KARAMO: Right? You think you’re ready to tackle the show tomorrow?
> 
> _Richie nods._
> 
> RICHIE: Man, I’m gonna try.  
> KARAMO: That’s my man! Come on, let's roll.
> 
> _Richie and Karamo walk over to their bikes, when Karamo gently nudges Richie with his elbow._
> 
> KARAMO: Promise me one thing, though.  
> RICHIE: What’s that?  
> KARAMO: Talk to Eddie at some point.  
> RICHIE: Wh -  
> KARAMO: I mean eventually, no pressure. But do yourself a favor.
> 
> _Richie gapes at him, and Karamo smiles an inscrutable smile._
> 
> KARAMO: That’s all I needed to say. Now go get your bike, man.

  
  


\---

  
  


Richie flicks on the lights in his motel room. He slaps his call sheet for the next day down on his desk and peels out of his leather jacket before he sits down at his fold-down desk. The ancient laptop takes an eternity to boot up, and for a split second Richie thinks wistfully of the purely decorative Mac sitting on top of his purely decorative mahogany desk in his LA loft. He hammers the tips of his fingers onto the edge of the table in an attempt to keep the words in them from spilling, pulls the joint from his breast pocket and places it gently next to the keyboard, a reward for later. The writing program stalls, straining to open five separate windows after Richie overdid it with double clicking the desktop symbol, but finally it’s there, the blueish white and the blinking cursor, and Richie starts typing, his fingers tripping over each other.

Somewhere in the back of his head he is still vaguely aware this has to be good. Then again - he’s going on stage in fucking Derry tomorrow, and not a single soul in this godforsaken town has had the decency to give a shit about Richie Trashmouth Tozier for the past twenty-eight years, so why would they start now? He decides to listen to Karamo and lets it liberate him.

When he's finally finished, the sun is already sticking its curious fingers through the threadbare curtains on his window. He's got an hour and a half until his call, just enough for a catnap and maybe a shower. Richie leans back in his precariously squeaking chair, reads over the whole thing one last time, sends it to the reception to print and puts the untouched blunt back into his breast pocket. A reward, for later.

  
  


\---

  
  


> THE NEW RICHIE: A CONTENT ADULT
> 
> _We cut from Tan arranging a couple of clothes hangers in Richie’s closet to Antoni putting a last avocado into a fruit basket in the kitchen, but we only catch a glimpse of the brand-new sleek interior design of Richie’s house. In Richie’s living room, Jonathan and Karamo are huddled behind one of the front windows, peeking though the blinds onto the street as a black car approaches._
> 
> KARAMO: Wait, is that them?  
> JONATHAN: Oh my god, they’re here! Guyyys!
> 
> _Tan and Antoni join Karamo and Jonathan in the hallway._
> 
> _Outside, Bobby and Richie get out of the Fab Five GMC. Richie's wearing his leather jacket, his glasses barely hiding the dark circles under his eyes._
> 
> BOBBY: You ready?  
> RICHIE: I’m, dude - I’m -
> 
> _Richie appears twitchier than usual, but in stark contrast to the other times we’ve seen him nervous, this seems to be mostly happy anticipation. Richie stops at the edge of the property._
> 
> RICHIE: Aw, you left the front lawn for the bees!  
> BOBBY: Gotta give them bees a livelihood, right?
> 
> _Bobby hooks his arm through Richie's and together they walk up to the front door. Richie shakes the tenseness from his shoulders._
> 
> RICHIE: Man, you never told me this would be this stressful.  
> BOBBY: What, scared of what I did to the place? I won’t keep you waiting, go on, knock!
> 
> _Richie goes to knock on the front door, which immediately flies open with the other Fab Five behind it._
> 
> JONATHAN: Hey boys! Come on in!  
> ANTONI: Bobby! Richie! You made it!  
> TAN: Hey Richie!  
> KARAMO: Welcome to your new home!
> 
> _They exchange a round of hugs, until Richie catches a glimpse of his surroundings._
> 
> RICHIE: Dudes -
> 
> _Bobby has painted the dark paneling of the hallway white, giving it a homey Scandinavian touch. Along the walls, he has framed and hung pictures he found around the house - there’s the family photo from the window sill between framed comic book covers and a Polaroid selfie of Richie and the Losers Club. Richie walks down the corridor studying the gallery, the Fab Five following him. Antoni has his hands clutched in front of his chest, Bobby is smiling expectantly. The corridor opens to the left into the kitchen._
> 
> RICHIE: Holy [bleep]ing shit!
> 
> _In front of the fashionably dark walls sits a completely new kitchen set - stove top, oven, massive fridge, a barn-style sink, a slide-out storage shelf -_
> 
> ANTONI: Just think of all the instant ramen this could hold...
> 
> _Richie laughs, overwhelmed._
> 
> RICHIE: Dudes, this is - this is -  
> BOBBY: You wanna see more?
> 
> _Richie drops his shoulders, clearly unable to articulate any of his feelings._
> 
> RICHIE: Uh, sure -
> 
> _Bobby leads Richie to the living room on the other side of the corridor. The room takes up the entire right side of the building, painted a calming ocean blue, with a string of beautiful whitewashed window frames opening it up to the overgrown garden. There’s a dining table fit to seat six people, and a huge sectional in front of a flat screen further to the back of the room. Bobby has added some decorative touches - houseplants, pillows, curtains, some vases, and a couple of shelves displaying the more exotic of Richie’s collectable action figures._
> 
> RICHIE: Wait - wasn’t there a wall here?  
> BOBBY: I broke through to your old bedroom. I wanted to make sure you had a place to entertain all your friends at once.  
> RICHIE: You did all that in a _week_?
> 
> _Richie studies the action figures on the shelves. Bobby has even put the battered old walkie-talkie up on display._
> 
> RICHIE: Dude, that’s rad.  
> BOBBY: Told you it’s museum-worthy. I wanted to keep a touch of you, your past.
> 
> _Richie swallows._
> 
> RICHIE: No, it’s - man -  
> BOBBY: And here -
> 
> _He leads Richie around a semi-transparent room divider, behind which he has set up a large desk with an ergonomic office chair in front of it. Bobby has put another framed snapshot of the Losers Club up over the desk._
> 
> BOBBY: And that's for you to remember who your audience is.  
> RICHIE: Holy shit, that's -
> 
> _He clears his throat, his eyes getting a little teary behind his glasses. Tan and Antoni gently nudge each other when they see it. Antoni is almost crying already._
> 
> BOBBY: Ready for the bedroom?  
> RICHIE: Dude, there’s _more_?
> 
> _Bobby leads Richie back out on the corridor and into the bedroom. It fits in beautifully with the rest of the house, dark, calming tones, a heavy wooden king-size bed in the center. Richie looks a little wistful when he sees it, sleep deprivation, or perhaps something else, when -_
> 
> RICHIE: Dude, where did you find that?
> 
> _The showstopping element of the room is a vintage arcade neon sign that Bobby has hung over the headboard of the bed._
> 
> BOBBY: Ah, you noticed! It’s the original, I had a chat with the former owner. Wait -
> 
> _Bobby dives towards Richie’s bedside table, flicks a hidden switch, and illuminates the sign._
> 
> JONATHAN: Oh my god, Bobby! That's genius!  
> ANTONI: Holy [bleep], Bobby!  
> TAN: Bobbers, when are you doing _my_ house?
> 
> _Richie laughs, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. He’s clearly overwhelmed._
> 
> RICHIE: Dudes, that is so rad, honestly.  
> BOBBY: Do you like it?  
> RICHIE: Man, I love it. I mean, dude. It’s perfect.  
> BOBBY: Aw, I’m glad. I wanted to create a space for you where you felt comfortable. That felt like _yours_.  
> RICHIE: No, you nailed it. It’s _perfect_.  
> TAN: Richie, can I just point you towards your new closet -
> 
> _Tan guides Richie towards the space between the bedroom and the ensuite bathroom, where a collection of shirts and jackets hangs on a couple of open racks._
> 
> RICHIE: Guys, slow it down. I think I need someone to hold me.  
> JONATHAN: On it, honey.
> 
> _Jonathan wraps his arms around Richie from behind and hooks his chin over his shoulder. He stays remarkably quiet while Antoni, Bobby and Karamo retreat to occupy the sectional in the living room and Tan explains the contents of Richie's new closet._
> 
> _Tan leafs through the button-ups, some of them printed with subtle florals and stripes._
> 
> TAN: I know it’s easy to get overwhelmed with too much choice, so I kept it nice and simple for you. Over here, you’ve got your every day shirts and pants, basically impossible to go wrong here, I kept the colors nice and muted, but I know how you love a good pattern, so I got some fun little prints for you - _  
> _RICHIE: Oh, those are _nice_.  
> TAN: Now, moving on to the glam part of your closet. I know your job requires you to be on the occasional red carpet, so I got you a tailored suit.
> 
> _He pulls out a beautiful maroon two-piece suit with a blue pin-stripe lining._
> 
> JONATHAN: Oh my god, _gorg_!
> 
> _Richie looks stunned._
> 
> RICHIE: What he said.  
> TAN: Wanna try it on?
> 
> _Richie admiringly touches the shoulders of the suit Tan is holding out for him._
> 
> RICHIE: Uh, yes _please_.
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Tan and Jonathan appear in the living room door with excited looks on their faces._
> 
> ANTONI: And? Is it good?  
> JONATHAN: Oh, you are in for a show, boys.
> 
> _Jonathan sits down on the edge of the sectional next to Antoni, his legs daintily crossed at the ankles. Tan peeks back into Richie’s bedroom._
> 
> TAN: Richie, are you ready to come out?
> 
> _On cue, Richie saunters into the living room, wearing the perfectly fitted maroon suit over a subtly patterned button-down with no tie._
> 
> RICHIE: Babe, I’ve been _dying_ to come out.
> 
> _The remark is swallowed by the Fab Five’s collective shrieks._
> 
> KARAMO: Oh my god, you look so good!  
> ANTONI: Holy shit! You’re so hot!  
> JONATHAN: Who gave you permission?  
> BOBBY: You look amazing -  
> TAN: How do you feel, Richie?
> 
> _Richie twirls around, his hands buried in the pockets of his pants, stretching his back, trying to get a feel for it._
> 
> RICHIE: I mean, this suit - is the shit.  
> TAN: Right? You look like a million bucks. You’re gonna give Mulaney a run for his money.  
> RICHIE: Ah, here’s the problem, I think Mulaney’s got the suits trademarked. And I hear Mulaney's second favorite suit is a lawsuit, so -
> 
> _The Fab Five groan collectively, much to Richie’s delight._
> 
> TAN: Well, lucky me, then! I got you another look for the stage.  
> ANTONI: Oh my god, I wanna see the stage look.  
> KARAMO: Oh my god, yes, Tan! Show us the stage look!
> 
> _Tan looks at Richie._
> 
> TAN: Wanna top this?
> 
> _Richie looks like he’s swallowing another comeback, and nods eagerly instead._
> 
> TAN: Give us a minute, guys.
> 
> _Tan disappears in the bedroom with Richie - only to reappear one cut later by himself._
> 
> TAN: Boys, you’re not ready for this. You’re so not ready for this.  
> ANTONI: Oh my god, Tan, don’t torture us!
> 
> _Tan calls over his shoulder._
> 
> TAN: Richie? Ready to slay’em?
> 
> _Richie walks into the living room wearing a pair of skinny light-washed jeans with a pair of boots, a plain white t-shirt tucked into the front, and the unbuttoned blue, green and brown Hawaiian on top that accentuates the width of his chest and shoulders. It’s not just the outfit that makes the difference, Richie’s posture, too, has changed completely, from slouching shoulders to sheer confidence. On the couch, the Fab Five are literally falling over each other with praise._
> 
> KARAMO: Dude, you’re nailing it!  
> ANTONI: You. Look. So. Good.  
> JONATHAN: Oh my god, I want you to hold me, daddy!  
> BOBBY: Holy moly, Tan, you outdid yourself!
> 
> _Richie soaks up their compliments with a wide grin on his face._
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _We cut to Richie sitting in the midst of the Fab Five on the sectional, each with a drink in front of them. Jonathan puts a hand on Richie’s chin._
> 
> JONATHAN: Can I just say - good job on the stubble, hon. Much better than the straight shave.  
> RICHIE: Thanks, babe.
> 
> _Karamo watches them, shaking his head incredulously._
> 
> KARAMO: It’s like looking at a different man, Richie, I’m loving it. I’m really loving it.
> 
> _Richie smiles._
> 
> RICHIE: Man, I _feel_ different. Good different.
> 
> _He swallows._
> 
> RICHIE: Guys, I - I literally don’t know how to thank you. I mean, you know the story, I didn’t even know I needed help when you guys showed up. And I’m sorry I was a dick, by the way. I just - I had more shit to sort out than I realized. And I don’t know how to thank you enough for sticking around, for believing in me -
> 
> _Tan puts his hand on Richie’s knee and momentarily chokes up._
> 
> RICHIE: [bleep], Tan, that’s cheating!
> 
> _The Fab Five laugh. They’re obviously touched, Antoni wiping away a couple of tears._
> 
> BOBBY: Of course we believed in you, Richie. I think I’m not just speaking for myself when I say: We’ve all been where you’ve been. Feeling like the world got ahead of us. Scared to turn the next leaf, to grown into the person we could become.
> 
> _The other Fab Five nod solemnly._
> 
> KARAMO: And I think what we’re all seeing right now is that you’re ready. Whatever you decide to do next, you’ll be amazing. I for one can’t wait to watch.
> 
> _Antoni, Tan, Jonathan and Bobby eagerly agree. Richie swallows the lump in his throat._
> 
> RICHIE: Guys… I couldn’t have done it without you. And I mean each of you, you're - you're the bravest [bleep]ing people I know. Man… like I said, I don’t even have words, and ask anyone, that’s a [bleep]ing first.  
> KARAMO: Aw!
> 
> _He pats Richie’s shoulder._
> 
> JONATHAN: Come on, guys, group hug!
> 
> _Richie is buried under a heap of bear hugs and back rubs by the Fab Five. When they let go of him, he takes the moment to rearrange his glasses and to inconspicuously wipe his red rimmed eyes._
> 
> TAN: You know we wish we could stay for your show tonight.  
> ANTONI: How did it go with the writing?
> 
> _Richie pulls a pack of tightly folded A4 pages from his back pocket._
> 
> RICHIE: Got it right here.  
> JONATHAN: You know if you need someone to proofread -  
> RICHIE: Hey, I thought we had established mutual trust the other day!  
> JONATHAN: - I was gonna say I’m dyslexic, you gotta ask one of the other guys.
> 
> _He innocently folds his hands in his lap, and the Fab Five laugh._
> 
> JONATHAN: You know I trust you, sweetie. You’ll do good.
> 
> _Richie laughs and nods._
> 
> RICHIE: I hope so, guys. Man, I wish you could be there.  
> BOBBY: Us, too! But we’ll be watching from afar.  
> JONATHAN: Just imagine us naked -
> 
> _Tan gives Jonathan a friendly check with his elbow._
> 
> KARAMO: We’ll be there in spirit, is what Jonathan is trying to say.
> 
> _He puts his hand on Richie’s shoulder and squeezes it tight._
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _At the door, the Fab Five bid their teary-eyed farewell. One tight hug from each of them, and they’re on their way, waving as they walk down to the street through the unkempt garden._
> 
> JONATHAN: Bye Richie! Break a leg!  
> TAN: Give them a show to remember, love!  
> ANTONI: - and remember, no more instant noodles -  
> BOBBY: Bye! Take care!  
> KARAMO: Text us how it went!
> 
> _Richie is standing in the door of his brand-new childhood home, in his brand-new outfit, waving until they have all climbed into the GMC and driven off. When they’re out of sight, his shoulders drop. His hand find his back pocket, and his eyes briefly meet the camera. He raises his eyebrows and huffs theatrically._
> 
> RICHIE: It’s gonna be a show, guys.
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> \---
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _Inside the Fab Five loft. Karamo, Antoni and Jonathan are preparing drinks in the open kitchen, each dressed for wildly different occasions: Karamo in a t-shirt and fully sequinned bomber jacket, Jonathan in what looks like ballet lounge wear, and Antoni in a beige velour track suit._
> 
> _Tan and Bobby stroll into the kitchen, Bobby picks one of the drinks off the counter, Tan helps himself to a cup of tea._
> 
> TAN: Guys, are you ready to watch the new Richie?  
> JONATHAN: Oh my god, is it time already? I can’t wait!
> 
> _They all settle on the sectional in front of the massive flat screen, each of them cradling their drinks in their hands. Karamo has the remote control._
> 
> KARAMO: Ready?  
> ANTONI: Start it, Karamo! I’m already so stressed out on his behalf.
> 
> _Tan laughs. Karamo switches the TV on._
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _On screen, we observe Richie in his new space. He aimlessly wanders through the rooms, taking it all in. It’s the first time we’ve seen him not only quiet, but calm. He switches the arcade sign on in the bedroom, smiling to himself. In the living room, he pulls out the folded sheets of paper from his back pocket and goes through them again, mumbling to himself, reassuring himself he knows them by heart. Then he folds them up again and puts them back into his pocket._
> 
> _We follow Richie back into the closet space next to his bathroom, where he takes a look at himself in the full length mirror. He turns in front of it, liking what he sees, and mumbles to himself._
> 
> RICHIE: No way I’m changing out of that. No [bleep]ing way.
> 
> _In the loft, Tan is smiling when he hears it._
> 
> KARAMO: Playing it safe, that’s good. That’s good.
> 
> _Richie checks his hair in the bathroom mirror, works a bit of product into it, takes his glasses off just to try it, blinks hopelessly and puts them back on with a sigh. Then he grabs his old leather jacket from the bed -_
> 
> TAN: No, not the jacket! Damn, I should have burned that thing!
> 
> _\- and heads out of the house towards the waiting car._
> 
> TAN: I got him a fantastic bomber, it’s right there in the closet. That leather jacket is older than he is!  
> ANTONI: Aw, come on, Tan, maybe he’s wearing it for good luck.
> 
> _Richie gets out of the car in front of a small local venue. He’s wearing the leather jacket over his Hawaiian shirt now._
> 
> BOBBY: Say what you want, Tan, but I think he’s pulling it off.  
> JONATHAN: At this point he could wear whatever he wants, he’s just so [bleep]ing hot to me. Like, oh my god.  
> TAN: I just hope he takes it off on stage. Like, that’s the one thing I hope for.
> 
> _It’s getting dark around Derry. Richie walks past the posters announcing his gig, and past the first trickle of audience members lined up behind the cordons in front of the main entrance. Richie wipes his neck with his hand when he sees them, pointlessly ducking past them with the camera in tow._
> 
> ANTONI: Aw, he’s already got an audience!  
> BOBBY: The place is gonna be packed. Just wait for it. Nothing else is happening in that town tonight.
> 
> _A security guy opens the front door for Richie and lets him into the building. Once inside, Richie takes a deep breath._
> 
> TAN: God, he’s so nervous.  
> ANTONI: He’s dying inside. I can’t blame him. That must be stressful.
> 
> _The house is slowly filling with people. Bill, Ben, Mike, Beverly and Eddie show their tickets at the entrance and find their seats in the front row, square in front of the stage._
> 
> JONATHAN: Yeahs, they all came! Look at them! Front row seats, I’m gonna cry.  
> KARAMO: Man, I wish we could be there!
> 
> _The stage is still empty, apart from a barstool, a mic stand and a lonely plastic water bottle on the floor. We find Richie in a corridor backstage, lit relentlessly by white neon light. He’s going over the papers from his pocket, his hand subtly shaking. He's pacing up and down, pushing his glasses up his nose._
> 
> JONATHAN: Can someone just give him a hug, please?
> 
> _A ponytailed stage manager with a headset approaches Richie, talks to him inaudibly and guides him towards the side stage. Through a gap in the heavy molton we catch a glimpse of the audience - it’s packed, people are laughing, chatting, their faces lit by the occasional phone screen._
> 
> BOBBY: Told you it was gonna be sold out.  
> JONATHAN: Shhh, Bobby!
> 
> _A hush falls over the audience as the MC gets up on stage. We hear his voice muffled from backstage as he announces Richie._
> 
> MC (O.S.): Ladies and gentlemen, give it up foooor…
> 
> _Richie’s hands are opening and closing around his mic. He nervously checks his back pocket. We cut to the MC on stage._
> 
> MC: … Richiiiie Trashmouth!
> 
> _The audience starts clapping and whooping, none louder than the Losers Club in the front row. Richie casually jogs out on stage, carrying his mic. In the audience, Bev theatrically clutches her nonexistent pearls when she sees the outfit. Ben and Bill nudge each other, Mike leans over to Eddie and whispers something._
> 
> TAN: Ah, he took the jacket off! Thank god -  
> JONATHAN: SHHH!
> 
> _On stage, Richie waits for the applause to die down, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning widely. He's a pro. Anything that could read as nervousness now goes straight into his infectious energy._
> 
> RICHIE: Hello, hello, hello! Hey. Hi there!
> 
> _The applause ebbs down into expectant, eager silence. Richie drops his voice to the lowest possible register._
> 
> RICHIE: Hey guys. I’m back.
> 
> _A first round of scattered laughter. Richie switches back to his normal stage voice._
> 
> RICHIE: Feels good, feels nice to be back in [bleep]ing Derry! How are you guys?
> 
> _An expected round of applause at the mention of the location. Richie takes a deep breath._
> 
> RICHIE: Ah, guys. Guys, guys, guys. I don’t know if you even recognize me. I’ve been through a lot in the last week, I tell you. God, the gay jokes I could make tonight.
> 
> _Snickering from the audience. In the loft, Jonathan frowns._
> 
> RICHIE: But I won’t. Gay jokes are for dicks!
> 
> _A bout of laughter. Jonathan relaxes._
> 
> RICHIE: No, guys, tonight I brought something a little different. Something a little, uh… personal. I wanna apologize in advance. It's gonna be funny eventually, just – bear with me -
> 
> _Someone in the audience shouts something unintelligible and earns a round of giggles. Richie blinks against the stage lights. For the first time since he entered the stage, he looks hesitant._
> 
> _Karamo sits up straighter on the couch._
> 
> _Richie takes one hand off the mic and reaches for his back pocket._
> 
> JONATHAN: Oh my god, is he blanking?  
> ANTONI: Shhh!
> 
> _But instead of his notes, Richie’s hand comes back with a yellow cassette tape. A puzzled murmur goes through the audience._
> 
> BOBBY: Ah, that’s a mixtape we found at his place. I wonder what -  
> ANTONI/JONATHAN: SHHH!
> 
> _Richie holds up the mixtape to the crowd._
> 
> RICHIE: Brought a little show and tell. I made this mixtape when I was, like, fourteen. It features such timeless classics as _Take My Breath Away_ by Berlin, _Every Breath You Take_ by The Police, _The Air That I Breathe_ by The Hollies and _I’m All Out Of Love_ by, you guessed the theme, Air Supply. I made this for my friend Eddie, who, I should also mention, has asthma.
> 
> _A few scattered laughs from the audience. Karamo gasps, the rest of the Fab Five giving him questioning looks._
> 
> KARAMO: Hold on, if this is going where I think it's going -
> 
> _On screen, Richie continues with his bit._
> 
> RICHIE: That’s the kind of subtle attentions that really win a guy’s heart, you know. Eddie, if you’re wondering why you never got to see this, here’s another joke -
> 
> _Richie takes a gulp of air. The audience is dead silent. Karamo is holding his breath._
> 
> JONATHAN: Wait, is he -
> 
> _Jonathan reaches for Karamo’s hand on his left and Antoni’s on his right, clutching them breathlessly._
> 
> JONATHAN: Oh my god -
> 
> _Richie exhales, takes the leap._
> 
> RICHIE: I’ve been in love with you for twenty-eight years, and somewhere in my brain I made the connection that if I gave you a mixtape bullying you about your respiratory disease, people would find out that I’m gay and, like - burn me at the stake.
> 
> _Jonathan is screaming. Antoni is screaming. Tan is slapping his thighs._
> 
> TAN: I [bleep]ing knew it! I [bleep]ing knew it!!  
> KARAMO: Shut up, none of you guys had a clue! Richie, man, I’m so proud of you!  
> JONATHAN: Ohmygodohmygodohmygoood!  
> ANTONI: I can’t believe he didn’t _say_ anything!  
> BOBBY: Why didn't _you_ say anything, Karamo?  
> KARAMO: He didn't _tell_ me, I didn't think he was ready -  
> JONATHAN: Ahh, shut up, guys, shut up, I want to hear what he's saying!
> 
> _In Derry, the silence has taken a turn for the awkward. There’s a murmur going around the audience, a couple of nervous laughs. In the first row, it looks like the other Losers are collectively holding their breaths. The camera just barely catches Eddie’s profile where he’s sitting on the outer right of the Losers’ front row seats. He looks petrified, his expression unreadable._
> 
> JONATHAN: Oh my god, this is killing me. He did _not_ see that coming.  
> BOBBY: Neither did the average Derry citizen, by the sound of it.
> 
> _On stage, Richie clears his throat against the silence, soldiers on._
> 
> RICHIE: I mean, guys, I don’t know if you had any homophobic lynchings here since last year, but just so you know, I’m currently on camera. So don’t try anything.
> 
> _There’s a loud cackle in the audience that’s definitely from Beverly. Richie perks up when he hears it, like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders._
> 
> KARAMO: Yes, Richie, keep going! You can do it, you've got it!
> 
> _Richie closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again, he's got the show persona switched back on._
> 
> RICHIE: Anyways, ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who didn’t know, Eddie’s in the audience tonight! Yay! Give it up for the love of my life!
> 
> _He manages to hype the crowd up to a hesitant round of applause. Beverly is clapping and whooping loudly, nudging the other Losers to join her. Richie’s eyes stop on Eddie for a second, still no response, then he focuses pointedly on the rest of the audience._
> 
> RICHIE: Not to start any rumors here. This isn't a mutual thing, this has always been strictly a me problem. Eddie here is happily married to a woman, which I know because for a straight guy I used to keep suspiciously close tabs on his relationship status -
> 
> _Another loud cackle from Bev – and a laugh from the Fab Five couch._
> 
> RICHIE: And anyways, if you knew his wife, you'd know she's not the type of woman you want to mess with, so don’t worry, Eds, this isn’t “a move”.
> 
> _He tries a wobbly pair of air quotes with the mic still in his hand._
> 
> RICHIE: I think in showbiz they call this “character development”, or, more commonly, a “career killer”.
> 
> _There's the first tentative laugh from the Derry audience, while the Fab Five in their loft are already having a field day._
> 
> ANTONI: Oh, that's his new brand right there!  
> KARAMO: Yes, keep going, Richie, you got them!
> 
> _Richie positions himself at the front of the stage and shields his eyes with his hand to make out the audience._
> 
> RICHIE: I mean, I gotta say, guys, I expected a bit more of a reaction. You don’t look as surprised as I thought you would. You can't _all_ be my middle school bullies, right? Because I gotta say, those guys knew way before I did.
> 
> _That earns Richie a genuine laugh._
> 
> RICHIE: I mean, people, this is a scoop. “Homophobic Comedian Finally Comes Out”. Billiam Denbrough over here is already salivating just thinking about the Pulitzer he’s gonna win with my life story.
> 
> _Now he's got them. Nothing like a solid stab at a local celebrity._
> 
> RICHIE: Come on, can I get a show of hands? Who here is surprised by this? Humor me. Show me those hands, don’t leave me hanging.
> 
> _A couple of hands go up, paired with more good-natured laughter._
> 
> RICHIE: Okay... okay, that's a start, but come on, first row over here. Are you kidding? Where are those hands? Bill, Bev? Mike? Nope? Not a single hand?
> 
> _Ben, Bill, Bev and Mike determinedly leave their hands down as Richie walks down the front row, shaking their heads in unison, smiling widely. Bev mouths “We love you” and Richie beams at her. Then he reaches Eddie, who still looks like he's about to burst an aneurism._
> 
> RICHIE: Eds, why isn’t your hand up? Come on, I know for a fact you didn't have a clue. Guys, can anyone check Eddie’s vitals?
> 
> _That’s when Eddie gets up with a start._

  
  


Richie almost drops his mic. _Dumbest idea I ever had_ , he thinks. _Dumbest fucking idea I ever had._ Eddie’s jaw is so tight, you could crack a walnut with it, and he’s coming straight for the stage. Not even the security guard at the stairs dares to stand in his way when Eddie shoulders past him. Richie instinctively retreats a couple of steps.

Eddie climbs up the stairs and then they're on eye level, or, well, Richie thinks, as much on eye level as you can be with a man a good foot shorter than you. He winces and wishes his brain was build to supply impulses other than dumb jokes in moments of panic, but here they are.

Eddie grabs the mic from Richie’s hand and pushes past him to the front of the stage.

“Eds, hey -” Richie starts, his voice already dipping dangerously into pleading.

“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie says, half turning back to him, and then he turns to face the audience. Richie stops dead in his tracks as if Eddie had raised a six-foot diameter force field around himself. The light is blinding, and Eddie raises one hand to shield his eyes from it, to make out at least part of the audience. The silence in the room is so tense, Richie expects it to pop any second like an overblown balloon.

“Just so we’re clear,” Eddie starts. The mic adds a touch of reverb to his voice, and Richie braces himself for the inevitable. Fuck, how is it only now that he realizes how much hope he’d still had tied to the mere splinter of possibility that maybe, just maybe, Eddie and him could be the same?

“I’m getting a divorce,” Eddie says.

“ _What?_ ” Richie blurts out.

Eddie turns around to Richie, his face completely obscured by the blinding lights in his back. “I’m in the process of getting a divorce,” he repeats into the mic, a little shakier now. “Back in New York.” Richie vaguely registers the audience is laughing.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Richie says. His mouth is bone dry. “You can’t come up here and be funnier than I’ve been all night, that’s not fucking fair.” He still can’t make out Eddie’s face, but the rush of hope to his chest hits him like an adrenaline high. He's absently aware that Eddie's still holding on to the mic, and there's a good chance Richie's voice doesn't carry into the audience. “Why are you getting a divorce?”

Someone in the first couple of rows, Richie registers the voice as Bill’s, groans. It’s definitely Bev who shouts, “Speak up, guys!”

Richie takes a step across the edge of Eddie's force field and the world doesn't collapse. They’re facing each other at the front edge of the stage now, and the light is finally hitting Eddie’s face instead of obscuring it. It carves the lines out sharper than Richie is used to, the scar on his cheek a visible dent. Maybe it's just the unusual contrast, but his eyes look soft, and that's what makes Richie brave. Eddie is still holding the mic close to his chest and Richie reaches out for it, pulls it towards himself with Eddie's hand still around it. He knows that if he talks now, a dumb voice will come out, because his own is buried somewhere beneath a heap of feelings in his chest, but what can he do? He lowers his mouth to the mic.

“Do you wanna tell the good people of Derry why you’re getting a divorce?”

Huh, so jovial lawyer in a courtroom drama it is. Eddie’s mouth tenses disapprovingly - Richie desperately chalks it up to the stupid voice - but Eddie also doesn't take his eyes off Richie's face, and then he smiles, and Richie doesn’t feel the stage lights anymore, he doesn’t feel the audience's presence, he doesn’t feel anything but that smile.

Eddie follows his own hand that Richie stole with the mic in it and takes a step up to him, discarding the distance between them until it's nothing but a laughable couple of inches. Richie feels like his heart is going to explode. Eddie's lips twitch before he brings his mouth up to the mic.

“I think -” He looks at the mic, and then back up at Richie as if to reassure himself. “I think it’s probably because I’m super fucking gay.”

A laugh bursts from Richie's chest. It feels like he's been holding it for a couple of decades at least, and it multiplies and echoes throughout the audience.

“Really?” he says. He can't feel his fingers or his legs, but who cares. “What a coincidence, me too!”

Eddie laughs. It's the most beautiful sight in the entire fucking world. Just twice has Richie seen him that giddy with relief, that high on his own recklessness. Once when they were kids, and he'd just stormed out on his mom, and then again last year, after they'd slayed the fucking clown. This time, Richie's gonna make sure nobody's taking that away from him.

Richie raises his numb hand to Eddie's face, and next thing he knows the mic drops to the ground with an ugly sound and Eddie is pulling him in by his collar of his shirt, and then, as if that wasn't the last impossibility left in this universe, Eddie Kaspbrak is kissing him. And not only that, Richie's kissing Eddie back, right there in front of an audience, and it's not like that even matters, because that kiss - that kiss trumps everything. Richie locks his arms around Eddie's neck and pulls him as close as he possibly can, and Eddie is most likely on his tip-toes, and his hands are clinging to the front of the best shirt Richie has ever worn, and it's fucking perfect, stage lights and wolf whistles from the audience and everything.

“We're still on camera, huh,” Eddie mumbles when they break apart.

“Uh, yeah,” Richie says, out of breath. At least they're not mic'd anymore, because some of the thoughts bubbling up in his head are making it dangerously close to Richie's tongue, and they are definitely not intended for public ears.

Eddie nods, considering that. “Hmm,” he says. Richie is vaguely aware they're still in front of a live audience, and some of the quicker thinkers of them have probably gotten their phones out, and even though it's pretty close to Buttfuck, Nowhere in a lot of respects, the wifi reception in Derry is still surprisingly good, and when Richie talked about a scoop earlier, he wasn't actually kidding.

“We're gonna be news, I think,” he says.

“Making this the first time you've been culturally relevant in how long?” Eddie asks, deadpan. “Least you could do is say thank you.”

“You're such a bitch, Eds,” Richie says, putting all the admiration into it he's had to hold back over the years. He's said it a million times before, always code for the same thing he wasn't allowed to say, but this is the first time he feels like Eddie gets it, because Eddie straight up blushes before he settles into a self-satisfied smile.

“How about you do your job, asshole?”

Obediently, Richie turns to face the audience. “So, uh -” The crowd falls dead silent as soon as he speaks up. He doesn't even need the mic now. “So this went a little off script.”

He gets a laugh in response, and completely loses his train of thought when he feels Eddie's arm crawl around his waist, his hand landing lightly on his hipbone. He'd always had a suspicion that Eddie's shoulder would fit just perfectly into the crook of his arm, but this is a very public place to be getting actual proof for that.

“Uh, that's - that's all I got, guys,” Richie says, blinking against the stage lights. He vaguely remembers having feet and hands, but he has kind of forgotten where. “Uh, thanks for coming in, I guess!”

Someone – Richie thinks he recognizes Ben's voice – yells “Encore!” from the front row, and a couple of people second his demand with whistles and clapping.

“Go download yourselves some gay porn, you pervs,” Richie shouts back, grinning. He turns to Eddie and drops his voice to a mumble that's for his ears only.

“Hey , you wanna get out of here?”

“Fuck yeah,” Eddie says before Richie has even finished the sentence.

  
  


_Outta here_ , of course, is not the stylish makeout session against a wall in the backstage area that Richie has been fantasizing about for most of his adult life. A wall is definitely involved, though. A very convenient wall that Richie collapses against when his legs give out the second they get off stage.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” Eddie asks, holding on to Richie's upper arm with surprising strength behind his grip, which is another new piece of information for a whole different moment.

“Ah, gimme a sec,” Richie says, sliding to the ground in the least dignified way possible. His legs feel like he just stepped off a vibrating platform instead of a stage, and his hands are already cold and clammy. “Ah, shit, I just need -”

“You look like shit,” Eddie says, crouching in front of him, putting a warm, dry hand on Richie's bloodless cheek. “Are you gonna pass out?”

“Nah, I'm good. I might throw up, though.”

Eddie scrunches up his nose, but to his credit he doesn't budge an inch. Richie giggles helplessly, because as far as fantasies go, Eddie with that concerned look in his eyes and that hand on Richie's face ranks pretty high up there with the backstage makeout session.

“Can you stop laughing, you're freaking me out,” Eddie says.

“I'm good, I'm just -” Richie tries to steady his breathing. “Fuck, I just came out. On television.” The realization hits him like a barbell dropped from the ceiling. “Holy shit.”

Eddie looks at him with a half smile. He's still crouching over Richie's sprawled-out useless legs, holding on to his shoulder for balance. “Yeah, you did.”

“And so did you,” Richie says, poking Eddie's chest with his finger. “How are you not hyperventilating?”

Eddie shrugs innocently. “Maybe I'm just less of a mental and physical wreck than you.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, asshole, my body is a temple -”

“- and your brain is a dumpster fire, stop lying to yourself.”

Eddie still has his hand firmly on Richie's shoulder and he's settling down on his knees between Richie's legs like he's planning to stay there, and Richie can already see how they are going to be terrible together, fucking obnoxious, the absolute worst. It's going to be glorious. He reaches for Eddie's neat polo collar and pulls him into a kiss, locks his arms around Eddie's waist, tilts his head back to meet Eddie's lips, and if he's not mistaken Eddie lets go of a tiny moan before his hands find the back of Richie's head and he completely obliterates every last bit of work Richie put into his hair tonight. Richie gets his teeth on Eddie's bottom lip and Eddie swears, sharp and breathless, and --- like Richie just said. Glorious.

  
  


Later, they sit next to each other on the floor, their legs sprawled in front of them, their backs against the wall, Eddie's head nestled into the crook of Richie's left arm. The feeling is slowly returning to Richie's legs, prickling, at the same rate that he's losing the sense of touch in his left arm, but neither seems like a good enough reason to move. With his right, he fingers the joint from his breast pocket, and to his surprise, Eddie pulls out a lighter before Richie can even say anything.

“Is that -”

Richie nods.

“I didn't think that'd last this long,” Eddie says.

Richie shrugs. “Told you I'd save it.”

The house has grown quiet around them. It's a miracle that nobody has asked them to leave, but then again, there's every chance the stage manager barred their corridor for health and safety reasons. Richie imagines yellow and black barrier tape, GROSS MIDDLE-AGED MEN GOING AT IT, HAZARDOUS AREA, DO NOT CROSS. It's only fair they'd use their little reprieve to do some drugs as well, Richie thinks. He lights the joint and takes a deep drag, holds the smoke in his lungs until it feels like it's settling in his bones, and exhales slowly.

“Ahhh.”

Eddie picks the blunt from his fingers and takes two short puffs before he dissolves into coughs. “I fucking hate that shit.”

“We're gonna get you an inhaler,” Richie says, patting Eddie's thigh. He lazily rolls his head to the side to look at Eddie's profile, his right hand already heavy when he reaches for the joint. He could just sit like that and look at Eddie forever, with his hair all tousled and his collar crumpled by Richie's hands.

“Quit staring,” Eddie says, but his ears are bright red, which is how Richie knows he's secretly flattered. He nestles his forehead against Eddie's temple, nudging his cheek with his nose. Richie can't wrap his head around it, how anyone could look at that man and not immediately want to love and protect him, but tonight he's counting his blessings. He takes another hit.

“So you're about to be a forty-something divorcee, huh?” Richie asks, exhaling.

“You really didn't need to say it like that,” Eddie says.

“Sorry,” Richie says. “A _gay_ forty-something divorcee.” Richie puts the joint back between Eddie's fingers. “You know you could have told us. About the divorce, I mean.”

Eddie flinches. “Well -”

“Ah,” Richie says. The realization dawns on him a little late, although now that he's arrived there, he feels dumb for having missed it before. “So do they _all_ know, or -”

“I had to tell someone, right?”

Richie considers it. “I guess.” He can't shake the irritating sensation of feeling left out, no matter how well he knows, rationally, that that's not what this is about. “You _could_ have told me too, you know,” he insists, at the danger of sounding petulant. The joint is still sitting between Eddie's motionless fingers, the tip slowly glimmering down to ash. “I could have handled it.”

Eddie slightly turns his head, his cheekbone colliding with Richie's jaw.

“Dude, it took you twenty-eight years to tell me about that mixtape,” he says.

“Hey, it's a delicate fucking matter,” Richie says defensively.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “That's what I said.” He flicks the dead ash off the tip of the joint and takes another tentative drag. This time, he holds down the cough. “Whoa,” he exhales. He passes the joint to Richie and raises his hand to Richie's left, watching his own fingers attentively as they lace through the space between Richie's.

“Must have been hard for you,” Eddie muses. “Sitting on a mediocre joke for that long.”

“Torture,” Richie agrees. He holds the joint between his lips, shifts his weight around to reach for his back pocket and pulls out the yellow cassette.

“Here's a mixtape I made especially for you, babe,” Richie says around the joint, holding the tape out to Eddie. “All the songs that remind me of you.” It feels late to do this now, like an afterthought to who they could have been decades ago, but this is not a moment Richie is going to give up.

Eddie unhooks their fingers and takes the tape from his hand. “It's just the four, right?”

Richie pulls Eddie into a brief headlock to pick the joint from his lips with his numb left hand. “Man, I wasn't going to sit in front of the tape recorder for hours, waiting for breath-related songs on the radio. I had a _life_.”

Eddie examines the cassette. The label is a little faded, but Richie's round, boyish handwriting on it is still clearly legible. He traces it with his finger and smiles. “Thanks, babe, I love it.”

He heaves himself up from the floor and kisses Richie, the finger that just traced Richie's writing now on the edge of his jaw. Richie smiles into it, feeling weightless and giddy in a way that's only in a very small part due to the weed. He carefully places the joint on the floor so he has two free hands to pull Eddie in.

“What's so funny?” Eddie asks when they break apart, and for the first time since Richie can remember he sounds like he actually wants to know.

“Ah, you know,” Richie says, grinning wider, “just a mediocre dick joke that crossed my mind.”

“Fuck you, Tozier,” Eddie says, soft, and kisses him again.

  
  


\---

  
  


> _Back in the Fab Five loft, Jonathan is fanning his face, Antoni is dabbing his eyes with the sleeve of his track suit, Bobby, Karamo and Tan are staring at the blank screen as if they can't quite believe what just went down._
> 
> KARAMO: I swear, I didn't know he was gonna do that. I had no idea.  
> BOBBY: He killed it, though! I'm so proud of him!  
> ANTONI: I mean, I think I sensed something between them -  
> TAN (sarcastically): _Of course_ you did, Ant -  
> ANTONI: No, really, I swear, there was chemistry -  
> JONATHAN: Not like _that_ though, I mean, holy shit, that shit must have been pent up for _years_ -  
> KARAMO: I'm so happy for them, though. God, they earned that moment.  
> JONATHAN: Oh, they so did.
> 
> _We watch as Richie and Eddie take a little, awkward bow on stage, and then cut to the Fab Five's talking heads._
> 
> KARAMO: I am so glad we got to be part of Richie's journey.  
> JONATHAN: That's what we call a glow-up, henny!  
> TAN: It's honestly insane, there's a whole new energy there that he must've had to suppress completely. I can't wait to see where he takes that on stage.  
> JONATHAN: It's also so poignant, because, like, so many people who bully other people are really just so hurt inside. And Richie's story just goes to show -  
> BOBBY: We often don't realize just how brutal we can be with ourselves. We judge ourselves in a way we would never judge other people.  
> ANTONI: It really takes a lot to learn to be soft with yourself.  
> JONATHAN: And like, you don't have to be on defense all the time. It's okay to let your guard down and show your beautiful emotions once in a while.  
> BOBBY: In the end, all we can do is be kind to ourselves. And most of the time it's really just about learning to love ourselves like we'd love someone else. And I think if Richie is able to love Eddie like that -
> 
> _We cut back to Richie on the stage, Eddie's arm around his waist, beaming into the audience, and the Losers in the front row looking up to them clapping and laughing. Richie turns his head to say something inaudible to Eddie and Eddie nods eagerly, grabbing his hand._
> 
> BOBBY: - he'll just have to love himself, too. I don't think his self-hate stands a chance.
> 
> _We cut through the smiling headshots of the other Fab Five, Antoni, Tan, Jonathan, finally landing on Karamo._
> 
> KARAMO: In the end, we all deserve to be loved. By others, yes, by our friends, families, our partners, but most importantly - by ourselves. That's the key, guys. The first person to love you unconditionally is always going to be you.
> 
> _We end on Richie's beaming face close up, before he turns around and follows Eddie backstage._
> 
> _Cut to white. Cue: upbeat music._
> 
> _Then, another TITLE CARD:_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> #QESNEAKPEEK
> 
> _The industrial backstage area of a big venue. We follow the Fab Five as they tail after each other along a corridor, turning a couple of corners, before they stop at a dressing room door that's labeled with a laminated sheet of paper: RICHIE TOZIER. Antoni's in the front, checking back with the other Fab Five._
> 
> ANTONI: You guys ready?
> 
> _Eager nodding from the rest of them. Antoni grabs the door handle and pushes into the room._
> 
> ANTONI: Surprise!
> 
> _Inside, Richie is sitting on a low sofa, Eddie right next to him. The rest of the Fab Five push into the small room behind Antoni._
> 
> RICHIE: Holy shit! What are you guys doing here?  
> KARAMO: We wouldn't miss the big night! Tonight's the Netflix taping, right?
> 
> _Richie laughs._
> 
> RICHIE: No pressure!
> 
> _He looks delighted. Eddie makes the rounds, making a point of giving Karamo an extra tight hug. Richie introduces the Fab Five around the room._
> 
> RICHIE: You've met my boyfriend Eddie - and here's Stella, my manager -
> 
> _A middle-aged woman with sharp-looking glasses shakes the Fab Five's hands. A stage manager pokes her head through the door._
> 
> STAGE MANAGER: Last call, Richie.  
> BOBBY: Right, we don't want to keep you. We'll be in the audience!  
> TAN: We'll be the ones whooping at the gay content.  
> RICHIE: Noted. See you guys after the show?  
> KARAMO: Oh you [bleep]ing bet!  
> JONATHAN: Break a leg, honey!
> 
> _We jump inside the sold-out venue, the Fab Five squeezing through a packed row to take their reserved seats in the center. The stage's still empty except for the familiar barstool, mic stand and water bottle. When the lights go down, Jonathan squeals, holding on to Tan's and Antoni's hands to his left and right._
> 
> _The audience jumps out of their seats as Richie jogs out on stage. He's wearing a pair of skinny jeans and an open, short-sleeve button-down over a fitted henley. He blinks against the stage lights and waves. It' feels miles away from the sleek, stream-lined performance we saw a clip of at the beginning of the show. First and foremost, Richie looks genuinely glad to be there. The Fab Five applaud loudly. Finally, the applause dies down and a hush falls over the audience. Richie hooks his mic into the fastening of the mic stand and holds the silence for a couple of seconds. Then he brings his mouth close to the mic, his voice lowered to his deepest register._
> 
> RICHIE: Hey, guys. I'm back.
> 
> _Cut to black. TITLE CARD:_
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> RICHIE TOZIER: CAREER KILLER TOUR  
> premieres on NETFLIX on June 14th

  
  


\---


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